Quick.

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

Pist.
No, for my manly heart doth yern.
Bardolph, be blith: Nim, rouze thy vaunting veins:
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.

Quick.

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 ever 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; ^{9 note}

Sir John? quoth I: what, man? be of good cheer: so a' cried out, God, God, God, three or four times. Now I, to comfort him, bid him, a' shou'd not think of God; I hop'd, there was no need to trouble himself with any such thoughts yet: so a'bad 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 cold as any stone.

Nim.

They say, he cried out of Sack.

Quick.

Ay, and that a' did.

Boy.

And of women.

Quick.

Nay, that a' did not.

Boy.

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

Quick.

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

Boy.

He said once, the deule would have him about women.

Quick.

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 mantain'd that fire: that's all the riches I got in his service.

Nim.

Shall we shogg? 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 counsellor.
Go, clear thy crystals. 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 unwholesome food, they say.

Pist.
Touch her soft mouth and march.

Bard.
Farewel, hostess.

Nim.

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

Pist.

Let housewifery appear; keep close, I thee command.

Quick.

Farewel; adieu.