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George Sewell [1723–5], The works of Shakespear in six [seven] volumes. Collated and Corrected by the former Editions, By Mr. Pope ([Vol. 7] Printed by J. Darby, for A. Bettesworth [and] F. Fayram [etc.], London) [word count] [S11101].
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SCENE V. Tavern in East-cheap. Enter Falstaff and Bardolph.

Fal.

Bardolph, am I not 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 withered 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 mony 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.

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, thou bearest 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, and Dives that liv'd in purple; for there he is in his robes burning. If thou wert any way

-- 251 --

given to virtue, I would swear by thy face; my oath should be, by this fire; but thou art altogether given over; and wert indeed, but for the light in thy face, the son of utter darkness. When thou rann'st up Gads-hill in the night to catch my horse, if I did not think thou hast been an ignis fatuus, or a ball of wild-fire, there's no purchase in mony. O, thou art a perpetual triumph, an everlasting bonfire light; thou hast saved me 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 good cheap, at the dearest chandler's in Europe. I have maintain'd that Salamander of yours with fire, any time this two and thirty years, heav'n reward me for it.

Bard.

'Sblood, I would my face were in your belly.

Fal.

God-a-mercy! so should I be sure to be heart-burn'd.

Enter Hostess.

How now, dame Partlet the hen, have you enquir'd 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 tight of a hair was never lost in my house before.

Fal.

Ye lie, hostess; Bardolph was shav'd, and lost many a hair; and I'll be sworn my pocket was pick'd; go to, you are a woman, go.

Host.

Who I? I defie 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 mony, Sir John, and now you pick a quarrel to beguile me of it. I bought you a dozen of shirts to your back.

-- 252 --

Fal.

Dowlas, filthy dowlas: I have given them away to baker's wives, and they have made boulters of them.

Host.

Now as I am a true woman, Holland of eight shillings an ell: you owe mony here besides, Sir John, for your diet, and by-drinkings, and mony lent you, four and twenty pounds.

Fal.

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 grand-father's, worth forty mark.

Host.

O Jesu! 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.

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George Sewell [1723–5], The works of Shakespear in six [seven] volumes. Collated and Corrected by the former Editions, By Mr. Pope ([Vol. 7] Printed by J. Darby, for A. Bettesworth [and] F. Fayram [etc.], London) [word count] [S11101].
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