Why dost thou converse with that trunk of humours, that
bolting-hutch of beastliness, that swoln parcel of dropsies, that
huge bombard of sack, that stuft cloak-bag of guts, that roasted
Manning-tree ox with the pudding in his belly, that reverend vice,
that grey iniquity, that father ruffian, that vanity in years?
wherein is he good, but to taste sack and drink it? wherein neat and
cleanly, but to carve a capon and eat it? wherein cunning, but in
craft? wherein crafty, but in villainy? wherein villainous, but in
all things? wherein worthy, but in nothing?
Falstaff. I would, your grace would take me with you: whom means
your grace?
P. Henry. That villainous, abominable mis-leader of youth, Falstaff,
that old white-bearded Satan.
Falstaff. My lord, the man I know.
P. Henry. I know thou dost.
Falstaff. But to say, I know more harm in him than in myself, were
to say more than I know. That he is old (the more the pity) his
white hairs do witness it: but that he is (saving your reverence) a
whore-master, that I utterly deny. If sack and sugar be a fault, God
help the wicked! if to be old and merry be a sin, then many an old
host that I know is damned: if to be fat be to be hated, then
Pharaoh's lean kine are to be loved. No, my good lord; banish Peto,
banish Bardolph, banish Poins; but for sweet Jack Falstaff, kind
Jack Falstaff, true Jack Falstaff, valiant Jack Falstaff, and
therefore more valiant, being as he is, old Jack Falstaff, banish
not him thy Harry's company; banish plump Jack, and banish all the
world.
Pages:
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221