SCENE V.
Enter Bardolph and Page.
Bard.
Save your Grace.
P. Henry.
And yours, most noble Bardolph.
Bard.
Come, you virtuous ass, and bashful fool,
must you be blushing? wherefore blush you now; what
a maidenly man at arms are you become? Is it such a
matter to get a pottle-pot's maiden-head?
Page.
He call'd me even now, my lord, through a
red lattice, and I could discern no part of his face from
the window; at last, I spy'd his eyes, and, methought,
he had made two holes in the ale-wive's new petticoat,
and peep'd through.
P. Henry.
Hath not the boy profited?
Bard.
Away, you whorson upright rabbet, away!
Page.
Away, you rascally Althea's dream, away!
P. Henry.
Instruct us, boy, what dream, boy?
Page.
Marry, my lord, Althea dream'd, she was
deliver'd of a firebrand; and therefore I call him her
dream.
P. Henry.
A crowns-worth of good interpretation;
there it is, boy.
[Gives him mony.
Poins.
O that this good blossom could be kept from
cankers! well, there is six pence to preserve thee.
Bard.
If you do not make him be hang'd among
you, the Gallows shall be wrong'd.
P. Henry.
And how doth thy master, Bardolph?
Bard.
Well, my good lord; he heard of your Grace's
coming to town. There's a letter for you.
-- 234 --
P. Henry.
Deliver'd with good respect?—and how
doth the Martlemas, your Master?
Bard.
In bodily health, Sir.
Poins.
Marry, the immortal part needs a physician;
but that moves not him; though that be sick, it dies
not.
P. Henry.
I do allow this wen to be as familiar with
me as my dog; and he holds his place: for, look you,
how he writes.
Poins reads.
John Falstaff, knight,—Every man
must know that, as often as he hath occasion to name
himself: even like those that are kin to the King, for
they never prick their finger but they say, there is some
of the King's blood spilt. How comes that? says he,
that takes upon him not to conceive: 7 notethe answer
is as ready as a borrower's cap; I am the King's poor
cousin, Sir.
P. Henry.
Nay, they will be kin to us, or they will
fetch it from Japhet. But, to the letter:—Sir John
Falstaff, knight, to the son of the King, nearest his father,
Harry Prince of Wales, Greeting.
Poins.
Why, this is a certificate.
P. Henry.
Peace.
8 noteI will imitate the honourable Roman in brevity.
Poins.
Sure, he means brevity in breath; short-winded.
P. Henry.
I commend me to thee, I commend thee, and
I leave thee. Be not too familiar with Poins, for he misuses
thy favours so much, that he swears, thou art to
marry his Sister Nell. Repent at idle times as thou
-- 235 --
may'st, and so farewel. Thine, by yea and no; which
is as much as to say, as thou usest him. Jack Falstaff
with my familiars: John with my brothers and sisters:
and Sir John with all Europe.
Poins.
My Lord, I will steep this letter in sack, and
make him eat it.
P. Henry.
9 noteThat's to make him eat plenty of his
words. But do you use me thus, Ned? must I marry
your Sister?
Poins.
May the wench have no worse fortune! But
I never said so.
P. Henry.
Well, thus we play the fools with the time,
and the spirits of the wise sit in the clouds and mock us:
is your master here in London?
Bard.
Yes, my lord.
P. Henry.
Where sups he? doth the old Boar feed 1 notein
the old frank?
Bard.
At the old place, my lord, in East-cheap.
P. Henry.
What company?
Page.
Ephesians, my lord, of the old church.
P. Henry.
Sup any women with him?
Page.
None, my lord, but old Mrs. Quickly, and
Mrs. Doll Tear-Sheet.
P. Henry.
What Pagan may that be?
Page.
A proper gentlewoman, Sir, and a kinswoman
of my master's.
P. Henry.
Even such kin, as the parish heifers are
to the town Bull. Shall we steal upon them, Ned, at
supper?
Poins.
I am your shadow, my lord, I'll follow you.
P. Henry.
Sirrah, you boy, and Bardolph, no word
-- 236 --
to your master that I am yet come to town. There's
for your silence.
Bard.
I have no tongue, Sir.
Page.
And for mine, Sir, I will govern it.
P. Henry.
Fare ye well: go. This Dol Tear-Sheet
should be some road.
Poins.
I warrant you, as common as the way between
St. Albans and London.
P. Henry.
How might we see Falstaff bestow himself
to night in his true colours, and not our selves be seen?
Poins.
Put on two leather jerkins and aprons, and
wait upon him at his table, as drawers.
P. Henry.
From a God to a Bull? 2 notea heavy descension.
It was Jove's case. From a Prince to a prentice?
a low transformation; that shall be mine: for in every
thing, the purpose must weigh with the folly. Follow
me, Ned.
[Exeunt.
Alexander Pope [1747], The works of Shakespear in eight volumes. The Genuine Text (collated with all the former Editions, and then corrected and emended) is here settled: Being restored from the Blunders of the first Editors, and the Interpolations of the two Last: with A Comment and Notes, Critical and Explanatory. By Mr. Pope and Mr. Warburton (Printed for J. and P. Knapton, [and] S. Birt [etc.], London) [word count] [S11301].
