Host.

Pr'ythee honey-sweet husband, let me bring thee to Staines.

Pist.
No, for my manly heart doth yern.
Bardolph, be blith: Nym, rouze thy vaunting vein:
Boy, bristle thy courage up; for Falstaff he is dead,
And we must yern, therefore.

Bard.

Would I were with him, wheresome'er he is, either in heaven or in hell.

Host.

Nay, sure he's not in hell; he's in Arthur's bosom, if ever man went to Arthur's bosom. He made a finer end, and went away an it had been any christom child; a parted even just between twelve and one, even

at the turning o'th' tide: for after I saw him fumble with the sheets, and play with flowers, and smile upon his finger's end, I knew there was but one way; for his nose was as sharp as a pen. How now, Sir John? quoth I: what man? be of good cheer: so a cried out, Heav'n, Heav'n, Heav'n, three or four times. Now I, to comfort him, bid him a should not think of Heaven: I hop'd there was no need to trouble himself with any such thoughts, yet: so a bade me lay more clothes on his feet: I put my hand into the bed and felt them, and they were as cold as a stone: then I felt to his knees, and so upward, and upward, and all was as cold as any stone.* ^note

Nym.

They say he cried out of sack.

Host.

Ay, that a did.

Bard.

And of women.

Host.

Nay, that a did not.

Boy.

Yes that he did, and said they were devils incarnate.

Host.

A could never abide carnation, 'twas a colour he never lik'd.

Boy.

He said once the deule would have him about women.

Host.

He did, in some sort, indeed, handle women; but then he was rheumatick, and talk'd of the whore of Babylon.

Boy.

Do you not remember he saw a flea stick upon Bardolph's nose, and said it was a black soul burning in hell.

Bard.

Well, the fuel is gone that maintain'd that fire: that's all the riches I got in his service.

Nym.

Shall we shogg?† ^note the king will be gone from Southampton.

Pist.
Come, let's away. My love, give me thy lips:

Look to my chattels, and my moveables;
Let senses rule; the word is pitch and pay;
Trust none, for oaths are straws, men's faiths are wafer-cakes,
And hold-fast is the only dog, my duck,
Therefore Caveto be thy counsel;
Go, clear thy chrystals. Yoke fellows in arms,
Let us to France, like horse-leeches, my boys,
To suck, to suck, the very blood to suck.

Boy.

And that's but unwholsome food, they say.

Pist.

Touch her soft mouth, and march.

Bard.

Farewel, hostess.

Nym.

I cannot kiss, that's the humour of it; but adieu.

Pist.

Let housewifry appear; keep close, I thee command.

Host.

Farewel; adieu.