Act II.
Scene III.
Scene III.—London. Before a Tavern in
Eastcheap.
Enter PISTOL, Hostess, NYM, BARDOLPH,
and Boy.
Host. Prithee, honey-sweet husband, let me
bring thee to Staines.
Pist. No; for my manly heart doth yearn.
Bardolph, be blithe; Nym, rouse thy vaunting
veins;
Boy. bristle thy courage up; for Falstaff he is
dead,
And we must yearn 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 Ar-
thur's bosom, if ever man went to Arthur's bo-
som. A' 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'
the tide: for after I saw him fumble with the
sheets and play with flowers and smile upon his
fingers' ends, I knew there was but one way; for
his nose was as sharp as a pen, and a' babbled of
green fields. 'How now, 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' should not think of
God, I hoped there was no need to trouble him-
self 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 upward, and upward, and all was as cold as
any stone.
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 a' did; and said they were
devils incarnate.
Host. A' could never abide carnation; 'twas
a colour he never liked.
Boy. A' said once, the devil would have him
about women.
Host. A' did in some sort, indeed, handle wo-
men; but then he was rheumatic, and talked of
the whore of Babylon.
Boy. Do you not remember a' saw a flea stick
upon Bardolph's nose, and a' said it was a black
soul burning in hell-fire?
Bard. Well, the fuel is gone that maintain'd
that fire: that's all the riches I got in his ser-
vice
Nym. Shall we shog? 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. Farewell, hostess. [Kissing her.
Nym. I cannot kiss, that is the humour of it;
but, adieu.
Pist. Let housewifery appear: keep close, I
thee command.
Host. Farewell; adieu. [Exeunt.
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