 | King Henry V. Or The Conquest of France |  |
SCENE II.
Quickly's House in Eastcheap.Enter Pistol, Nim, Bardolph, Boy, and Quickly.
Quick.
Pr'ythee, honey-sweet husband, let me bring
thee to Staines.
Pist.
No, for my manly heart doth yern.
Bardolph, be blith: Nim, rouze thy vaunting vein:
Boy, bristle thy courage up; for Falstaff he is dead,
And we must yern, therefore.
Bard.
Would I were with him, wheresome'er he is,
either in heaven or in hell.
Quick.
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; a' parted even just between twelve and one, even
at the turning o' th' tide: for after I saw him fumble
with the sheets, and play with flowers, and smile upon
his nose was as sharp as a pen. How now, Sir John?
quoth I: what, man? be of good cheer: so a cried out,
Heav'n, Heav'n, Heav'n, three or four times. Now
I, to comfort him, bid him a should not think of Heaven:
I hop'd 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 a stone: then I felt
to his knees, and so upward, and upward, and all was
as cold as any stone.
Nim.
They say he cried out of sack.
Quick.
Ay, that a did.
Bard.
And of women.
Quick.
Nay, that a did not.
Boy.
Yes, that he did, and said they were devils incarnate.
Quick.
A could never abide carnation, 'twas a colour
he never lik'd.
Boy.
He said once the deule would have him about
women.
Quick.
He did, in some sort, indeed, handle women;
but then he was rheumatic, and talk'd of the whore of
Babylon.
Boy.
Do you not remember he saw a flea stick upon
Bardolph's nose, and said it was a black soul burning
in hell.
Bard.
Well, the fuel is gone that maintain'd that
fire; that's all the riches I got in his service.
Nim.
Shall we shog? the king will be gone from
Southampton.
Pist.
Come, let's away. My love, give me thy lips:
Look to my chattels, and my moveables;
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.
Boy.
And that's but unwholesome food, they say.
Touch her soft mouth, and march.
Bard.
Farewel, hostess.
Nim.
I cannot kiss; that's the humour of it; but adieu.
Pist.
Let housewifry appear; keep close, I thee command.
Quick.
Farewell; adieu.
[Exeunt.
| King Henry V. Or The Conquest of France | |