SCENE III
London. Before a tavern.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
Arthur's bosom, if ever man went to Arthur's
bosom. 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 o' 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 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 they
were as cold as any stone, and so upward and
upward, and all was as cold as any stone.
Nym.
They say he cried out of sack. (30)
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 color he never liked.
Boy.
A' said once, the devil would have
him about women.
Host.
'A did in some sort, indeed, handle
women; but then he was rheumatic, and (41)
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 maintained
that fire: that's all the riches I got in
his service.
Nym.
Shall we shog? the king will be gone
from Southampton.
Pist.
Come, let's away. My love, give me thy lips. (50)
Look to my chattels and my movables:
Let senses rule; the word is 'Pitch and Pay:'
Trust none;
For oaths are straws, men's faiths are wafercakes,
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! (60)
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 humor of
it; but, adieu.
Pist.
Let housewifery appear: keep close, I thee command.
Host.
Farewell, adieu. [Exeunt.
