Kill the poys and the luggage!
Kill the poys and the luggage! ’Tis expressly
against the law of arms. ’Tis as arrant a piece of
knavery, mark you now, as can be offert, in your
conscience now, is it not?
Wherefore the King, most worthily, hath caused
every soldier to cut his prisoner’s throat.
O, ’tis a gallant king!
’Tis certain there’s not a boy left alive, and
the cowardly rascals that ran from the battle ha’
done this slaughter. Besides, they have burned
and carried away all that was in the King’s tent,
wherefore the King, most worthily, hath caused
every soldier to cut his prisoner’s throat. O, ’tis a
Ay, he was porn at Monmouth, Captain
Gower. What call you the town’s name where
Alexander the Pig was born?
Alexander the Great.
Why, I pray you, is not “pig” great? The pig,
or the great, or the mighty, or the huge, or the
magnanimous, are all one reckonings, save the
phrase is a little variations.
I think Alexander the Great was born in Macedon.
His father was called Philip of Macedon, as I take it.
I think it is in Macedon where Alexander is
porn. I tell you, captain, if you look in the maps of
the ’orld, I warrant you sall find, in the comparisons
between Macedon and Monmouth, that the
situations, look you, is both alike. There is a river in
Macedon, and there is also, moreover, a river at
Monmouth. It is called Wye at Monmouth, but it is
out of my prains what is the name of the other river.
But ’tis all one; ’tis alike as my fingers is to my
fingers, and there is salmons in both. If you mark
Alexander’s life well, Harry of Monmouth’s life is
come after it indifferent well, for there is figures in
all things. Alexander, God knows and you know, in
his rages and his furies and his wraths and his
cholers and his moods and his displeasures and his
indignations, and also being a little intoxicates in
his prains, did, in his ales and his angers, look you,
kill his best friend, Cleitus.
Our king is not like him in that. He never
killed any of his friends.
It is not well done, mark you now, to take
the tales out of my mouth ere it is made and
finished. I speak but in the figures and comparisons
of it. As Alexander killed his friend Cleitus, being in
his ales and his cups, so also Harry Monmouth,
being in his right wits and his good judgments,
turned away the fat knight with the great-belly
doublet; he was full of jests and gipes and knaveries
and mocks—I have forgot his name.
Sir John Falstaff.
That is he. I’ll tell you, there is good men
porn at Monmouth.