Bardolph.
Fal.
Bardolph, am not I fall'n away vilely since this
last action? do I not bate? do I not dwindle? why,
my skin hangs about me like an old lady's loose gown:
I am wither'd like an old apple-john. Well, I'll repent,
and that suddenly, while I am in some liking;
I shall be out of heart shortly, and then I shall have no
strength to repent. An I have not forgotten what the
inside of a church is made of, I am a pepper-corn, a
brewer's horse. The inside of a church! Company,
villainous company, hath been the spoil of me.
Bard.
Sir John, you are so fretful, you cannot live
long.
Fal.
Why, there is it. Come, sing me a bawdy
song, to make me merry. I was as virtuously given as
a gentleman need to be; virtuous enough, swore little,
diced not above seven times a week, went to a bawdy-house
not above once in a quarter—of an hour; paid
money, that I borrow'd—three or four times; liv'd well,
and in good compass; and now I live out of all order,
out of all compass.
-- 48 --
Bard.
Why, you are so fat, Sir John, that you must
needs be out of all compass; out of all reasonable compass,
Sir John.
Fal.
Do thou amend thy face, and I'll amend my
life. Thou art our admiral; he beareth the lanthorn
in the poop, but 'tis in the nose of thee. Thou art
the knight of the burning-lamp.
Bard.
Why, Sir John, my face does you no harm.
Fal.
No, I'll be sworn, I make as good use of it
as many a man doth of a death's-head, or a memento
mori. I never see thy face but I think upon hell-fire;
when thou rann'st up Gads-hill in the night, to catch
my horse, if I did not think thou hadst been an Ignis
Fatuus, or a ball of wild-fire, there's no purchase in
money. O, thou art a perpetual triumph, an everlasting
bonfire light! Thou hast saved me many a thousand
marks, in links and torches, walking with thee in the
night betwixt tavern and tavern; but the sack that
thou hast drunk me, would have bought me lights as
cheap, at the dearest chandler's in Europe. I have
maintain'd that Salamander of your's with fire, any
time this two-and-thirty years, heav'n reward me for
it!* note
Bard.
I would, my face were in your belly.
Fal.
So should I be sure to be heart-burn'd.
Enter Hostess.
How now, dame Partlet the hen, have you enquired
yet who pick'd my pocket?
Host.
Why, Sir John, what do you think, Sir John?
do you think I keep thieves in my house? I have
search'd, I have enquir'd, so has my husband, man by
man, boy by boy, servant by servant. The tythe of a
hair was never lost in my house before.
Fal.
Ye lie, Hostess! I'll be sworn my pocket was
pick'd. Go to; you are a woman, go.
-- 49 --
Host.
Who I? I defy thee. I was never call'd so in
mine own house, before.
Fal.
Go to; I know you well enough.
Host.
No, Sir John; you do not know me, Sir John.
I know you, Sir John; you owe me money, Sir John;
and now you pick a quarrel, to beguile me of it. I
bought you a dozen of shirts to your back.
Fal.
Dowlas, filthy dowlas! I have given them
away to bakers' wives, and they have made boulters
of them.
Host.
Now, as I am a true woman, holland of eight
shillings an ell. You owe money here, besides, Sir
John, for your diet, and by-drinkings, and money lent
you, four and twenty pounds.
* noteFal.
He had his part of it: let him pay.
Host.
He? alas! he is poor; he hath nothing.
Fal.
How! poor? look upon his face: what call
you rich? let him coin his nose, let him coin his
cheeks; I'll not pay a denier. What, will you make
a yonker of me? shall I not take mine ease in mine inn,
but I shall have my pocket pick'd? I have lost a seal-ring
of my grandfather's, worth forty marks.
Host.
I have heard the Prince tell him, I know not
how oft, that the ring was copper.
Fal.
How? the Prince is a Jack, a sneak-cup;
and if he were here, I would cudgel him like a dog, if
he would say so.
[a March.
Enter Prince Henry marching, and Peto; Falstaff meets them.
Fal.
How now, lad, is the wind in that door? must
we all march?
Bard.
Yea; two and two, Newgate-fashion.
Host.
My Lord, I pray you hear me.
P. Henry.
What say'st thou, Mistress Quickly? how
-- 50 --
does your husband? I love him well; he is an honest
man.
Host.
Good my Lord, hear me.
Fal.
Pr'ythee, let her alone, and list to me.
P. Henry.
What say'st thou, Jack?
Fal.
The other night I fell asleep here behind the
arras, and had my pocket pickt. This house is turn'd
bawdy-house; they pick pockets.
P. Henry.
What didst thou lose, Jack?
Fal.
Wilt thou believe me, Hal? three or four bonds,
of forty pounds apiece, and a seal-ring of my grandfather's.
P. Henry.
A trifle, some eight-penny matter!
Host.
So I told him, my Lord; and I said, I heard
your Grace say so: and, my Lord, he speaks most vilely
of you, like a foul-mouth'd man as he is, and said, he
would cudgel you.
P. Henry.
What! he did not?
Host.
There's neither faith, truth, nor womanhood, in
me else.
Fal.
There's no more faith in thee, than in a stew'd
prune; no more truth in thee, than in a drawn fox;
and for womanhood, maid Marian may be a deputy's
wife of the ward to thee. Go, you thing, go!
Host.
Say, what thing! what thing!
Fal.
What thing? why a thing to thank heaven on.
Host.
I am nothing to thank heaven on, I would
thou should'st know it; I am an honest man's wife;
and, setting thy knighthood aside, thou art a knave to
call me so.
Fal.
Setting thy womanhood aside, thou art a beast
to say otherwise.
Host.
A beast!—say what beast, thou knave, thou?
Fal.
What beast? why, an otter.
P. Henry.
An otter, Sir John, why an otter?
Fal.
Why she's neither fish nor flesh; a man knows
not where to have her.
Host.
Thou art an unjust man in saying so; thou or
any man knows where to have me, thou knave, thou
-- 51 --
P. Henry.
Thou say'st true, hostess, and he slanders
thee most grossly.
Host.
So he doth you, my Lord, and said, this other
day, you ow'd him a thousand pound.
P. Henry.
Sirrah, do I owe you a thousand pound?
Fal.
A thousand pound, Hal! a million; thy love is
worth a million: thou ow'st me thy love.
Host.
Nay, my Lord, he call'd you Jack, and said
he would cudgel you.
Fal.
Did I, Bardolph?
Bard.
Indeed, Sir John, you said so.
Fal.
Yea, if he said my ring was copper.
P. Henry.
I say 'tis copper. Dar'st thou be as good
as thy word, now?
Fal.
Why, Hal, thou know'st, as thou art but a man,
I dare; but as thou art a prince, I fear thee, as I fear
the roaring of a lion's whelp.
P. Henry.
And why not as the lion?
Fal.
The king himself is to be fear'd as the lion:
dost thou think I'll fear thee as I fear thy father? nay,
if I do, let my girdle break!
P. Henry.
O, if it should, how would thy guts fall
about thy knees! why, thou whorson, impudent, imboss'd* note
rascal, if there were any thing in thy pocket
but tavern-reckonings, memorandums of bawdy-houses,
and one poor penny-worth of sugar-candy, to make thee
long-winded; and yet you will stand to it, you will not
pocket up wrongs. Art thou not asham'd?
Fal.
Dost thou hear, Hal? thou know'st, in the
state of innocency, Adam fell; and what should poor
Jack Falstaff do, in the days of villainy? thou seest,
I have more flesh than another man, and therefore
more frailty. You confess then you pickt my pocket?
P. Henry.
It appears so by the story.
Fal.
Hostess, I forgive thee. Go, make ready
breakfast, love thy husband, look to thy servants, and
cherish thy guests; thou shalt find me tractable to any
-- 52 --
honest reason; thou seest I am pacify'd still. Nay,
I pr'ythee be gone.
[Exit Hostess.
Now, Hal, to the news at court: for the robbery,
lad—how is that answer'd?
P. Henry.
The money is paid back again.
Fal.
O, I do not like that paying back; 'tis a double
labour.
P. Henry.
I am good friends with my father, and
may do any thing.
Fal.
Rob me the Exchequer, the first thing thou dost,
and do it with unwash'd hands too.
Bard.
Do, my Lord.
P. Henry.
I have procur'd thee, Jack, a charge of
foot.
Fal.
I would, it had been of horse. Where shall I
find one that can steal well? O, for a fine thief, of
two-and-twenty, or thereabout! I am heinously unprovided.
Well, heaven be thank'd for these rebels, they
offend none but the virtuous! I laud them, I praise
them.
P. Henry.
Bardolph.
Bard.
My Lord?
P. Henry.
Go, bear this letter to Lord John of
Lancaster, to my brother John; this to my lord of
Westmoreland. Jack, meet me, to-morrow, in the
Temple-hall, at two o'clock in the afternoon; there
shalt thou know thy charge, and there receive money
and order for their furniture.
The land is burning, Percy stands on high,
And either they, or we, must lower lie.
Fal.
Rare words! brave world! hostess, my breakfast, come:
Oh! I could wish this tavern were my drum.
[Exeunt.
note
-- 53 --
John Bell [1774], Bell's Edition of Shakespeare's Plays, As they are now performed at the Theatres Royal in London; Regulated from the Prompt Books of each House By Permission; with Notes Critical and Illustrative; By the Authors of the Dramatic Censor (Printed for John Bell... and C. Etherington [etc.], York) [word count] [S10401].
