Act II, Scene 3
London. Before a tavern in Eastcheap.
- Enter Pistol, Nym, Bardolph, Boy, and Hostess.
- Prithee, honey-sweet husband, let me bring thee to Staines.
Pistol2 - 5
- No; for my manly heart doth ern.
- Bardolph, be blithe; Nym, rouse thy vaunting veins;
- Boy, bristle thy courage up; for Falstaff he is dead,
- And we must ern therefore.
Bardolph6 - 7
- Would I were with him, wheresome’er he is, either in heaven
- or in hell!
Hostess8 - 23
- Nay sure, he’s not in hell; he’s in Arthur’s bosom, if ever
- man went to Arthur’s bosom. ’A made a finer end, and went
- away and it had been any christom child. ’A parted ev’n just
- between twelve and one, ev’n 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, and ’a
- babbl’d of green fields. “How now, Sir John?” quoth I,
- “what, man? Be a’ good cheer.” So ’a cried out, “God, God,
- God!” three or four times. Now I, to comfort him, bid him ’a
- should not think of God; 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 any stone; then I felt
- to his knees, and so up’ard and up’ard, and all was as cold
- as any stone.
- They say he cried out of sack.
- Ay, that ’a did.
- And of women.
- Nay, that ’a did not.
- Yes, that ’a did, and said they were dev’ls incarnate.
- ’A could never abide carnation—’twas a color he never lik’d.
- ’A said once, the dev’l would have him about women.
Hostess31 - 32
- ’A did in some sort, indeed, handle women; but then he was
- rheumatic, and talk’d of the whore of Babylon.
Boy33 - 34
- Do you not remember, ’a saw a flea stick upon Bardolph’s
- nose, and ’a said it was a black soul burning in hell?
Bardolph35 - 36
- Well, the fuel is gone that maintain’d that fire. That’s all
- the riches I got in his service.
- Shall we shog? The King will be gone from Southampton.
Pistol38 - 47
- 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!
- And that’s but unwholesome food, they say.
- Touch her soft mouth, and march.
- Farewell, hostess.
- Kissing her.
- I cannot kiss, that is the humor of it; but adieu.
- Let huswifery appear. Keep close, I thee command.
- Farewell; adieu.