Bardolph, be blithe
be blithe.—Nym, rouse thy vaunting veins.— Boy,
bristle thy courage up. For Falstaff, he is dead, and
we must earn therefore.
Would I were with him, wheresome’er he
is, either in heaven or in hell.
Trust none, for oaths are straws,
men’s faiths are wafer-cakes
Nay, sure, he’s not in hell! He’s in Arthur’s
bosom, if ever man went to Arthur’s bosom. He
made a finer end, and went away an it had been any
christom child. He 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
he talked of green fields. “How now, Sir John?”
quoth I. “What, man, be o’ good cheer!” So he cried
out “God, God, God!” three or four times. Now I, to
comfort him, bid him he should not think of God; I
hoped there was no need to trouble himself with
any such thoughts yet. So he 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.
They say he cried out of sack.
Ay, that he did.
And of women.
Nay, that he did not.
Yes, that he did, and said they were devils incarnate.
He could never abide carnation. ’Twas a
color he never liked.
He said once, the devil would have him about women.
He did in some sort, indeed, handle women,
but then he was rheumatic and talked of the Whore
Do you not remember he saw a flea stick upon
Bardolph’s nose, and he said it was a black soul
burning in hell?
Well, the fuel is gone that maintained that
fire. That’s all the riches I got in his service.
Shall we shog? The King will be gone from Southampton.
Come, let’s away.—My love, give me thy lips.
They kiss. 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 wafer-cakes,
and Holdfast is the only dog, my duck.
Therefore, Caveto be thy counselor. 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.
Bardolph, kissing the Hostess
I cannot kiss, that is the humor of it. But adieu.
Pistol, to the Hostess
Let huswifery appear. Keep
close, I thee command.