Now, Falstaff, where have you been all this while?

John of Lancaster
Now, Falstaff, where have you been all this while?
When everything is ended, then you come.
These tardy tricks of yours will, on my life,
One time or other break some gallows’ back.

Do you think me a swallow, an arrow, or a bullet?
Have I in my poor and old motion the expedition
of thought? I have speeded hither with the very
extremest inch of possibility

Falstaff
I would be sorry, my lord, but it should be
thus. I never knew yet but rebuke and check was the
reward of valor. Do you think me a swallow, an
arrow, or a bullet? Have I in my poor and old
motion the expedition of thought? I have speeded
hither with the very extremest inch of possibility. I
have foundered ninescore and odd posts, and here,
travel-tainted as I am, have in my pure and immaculate
valor taken Sir John Colevile of the Dale, a most
furious knight and valorous enemy. But what of
that? He saw me and yielded, that I may justly say,
with the hook-nosed fellow of Rome, “There, cousin,
I came, saw, and overcame.”
John of Lancaster
It was more of his courtesy than your deserving.
Falstaff
I know not. Here he is, and here I yield him.
And I beseech your Grace let it be booked with the
rest of this day’s deeds, or, by the Lord, I will have it
in a particular ballad else, with mine own picture
on the top on ’t, Colevile kissing my foot; to the
which course if I be enforced, if you do not all show
like gilt twopences to me, and I in the clear sky of
fame o’ershine you as much as the full moon doth
the cinders of the element (which show like pins’
heads to her), believe not the word of the noble.
Therefore let me have right, and let desert mount.
John of Lancaster
Thine’s too heavy to mount.
Falstaff
Let it shine, then.
John of Lancaster
Thine’s too thick to shine.
Falstaff
Let it do something, my good lord, that may
do me good, and call it what you will.