His very size
floats him out of all his difficulties in a sea of rich conceits;
and he turns round on the pivot of his convenience, with every
occasion and at a moment's warning. His natural repugnance to every
unpleasant thought or circumstance of itself makes light of
objections, and provokes the most extravagant and licentious answers
in his own justification. His indifference to truth puts no check
upon his invention, and the more improbable and unexpected his
contrivances are, the more happily does he seem to be delivered of
them, the anticipation of their effect acting as a stimulus to the
gaiety of his fancy. The success of one adventurous sally gives him
spirits to undertake another: he deals always in round numbers, and
his exaggerations and excuses are 'open, palpable, monstrous as the
father that begets them'. His dissolute carelessness of what he says
discovers itself in the first dialogue with the Prince.
Falstaff. By the lord, thou say'st true, lad; and is not mine
hostess of the tavern a most sweet wench?
P. Henry. As the honey of Hibla, my old lad of the castle; and is
not a buff-jerkin a most sweet robe of durance?
Falstaff. How now, how now, mad wag, what in thy quips and thy
quiddities? what a plague have I to do with a buff-jerkin?
P. Henry. Why, what a pox have I to do with mine hostess of the
tavern?
In the same scene he afterwards affects melancholy, from pure
satisfaction of heart, and professes reform, because it is the
farthest thing in the world from his thoughts.
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