Bardolph, am I not fallen away vilely
Bardolph, am I not fallen 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 applejohn.
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 peppercorn, a brewer’s horse. The inside of a
church! Company, villainous company, hath been
the spoil of me.
Why, there is it. Come, sing me a bawdy song, make me merry. I was as virtuously given as a
gentleman need to be, virtuous enough
Sir John, you are so fretful you cannot live long.
Why, there is it. Come, sing me a bawdy
song, 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 money that I borrowed—three or four
times; lived well and in good compass; and now I
live out of all order, out of all compass.
Why, you are so fat, Sir John, that you must
needs be out of all compass, out of all reasonable
compass, Sir John.
Do thou amend thy face, and I’ll amend my
life. Thou art our admiral, thou bearest the lantern
in the poop, but ’tis in the nose of thee. Thou art the
Knight of the Burning Lamp.
Why, Sir John, my face does you no harm.
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 hellfire
and Dives that lived in purple, for there he is in his
robes, burning, burning. If thou wert any way given
to virtue, I would swear by thy face. My oath should
be “By this fire, that’s God’s angel.” But thou art
altogether given over, and wert indeed, but for the
light in thy face, the son of utter darkness. When
thou ran’st up Gad’s Hill in the night to catch my
horse, if I did not think thou hadst been an ignis
fatuus, or a ball of wildfire, there’s no purchase in
money. 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 maintained that salamander of yours with fire
any time this two-and-thirty years, God reward me
’Sblood, I would my face were in your belly!
Godamercy, so should I be sure to be heartburned!