state, this dagger my sceptre, and this cushion my crown. P. Hen. Thy state is taken for a joint-stool, thy golden sceptre for a leaden dagger, and thy precious rich crown for a pitiful bald crown! Fal. Well, an the fire of grace be not quite out of thee, now shalt thou be moved. Give me a cup of sack, to make mine eyes look red, that it may be thought I have wept; for I must speak in passion, and I will do it in king Cambyses' vein.1 P. Hen. Well, here is my leg. bility. Stand aside, no Host. This is excellent sport, i' faith. Fal. Weep not, sweet queen, for trickling tears are vain. Host. O, the father, how he holds his countenance ! Fal. For God's sake, lords, convey my tristful 3 queen, For tears do stop the floodgates of her eyes. Host. O rare! he doth it as like one of these harlotry players, as I ever see. Fal. Peace, good pint-pot; peace, good ticklebrain. Harry, I do not only marvel where thou spendest thy time, but also how thou art accompanied; for though the camomile, the more it is A character in a tragedy by Preston, written in 1570. Probably the nickname of some strong liquor. trodden on, the faster it grows, yet youth, the more it is wasted, the sooner it wears. That thou art my son, I have partly thy mother's word, partly my own opinion; but chiefly, a villanous trick of thine eye, and a foolish hanging of thy nether lip, that doth warrant me. If then thou be son to me, here lies the point;-why, being son to me, art thou so pointed at? Shall the blessed sun of heaven prove a micher,1 and eat blackberries? a question not to be asked. Shall the son of England prove a thief, and take purses? a question to be asked. There is a thing, Harry, which thou hast often heard of, and it is known to many in our land by the name of pitch: this pitch, as ancient writers do report, doth defile; so doth the company thou keepest: for, Harry, now I do not speak to thee in drink, but in tears; not in pleasure, but in passion ; not in words only, but in woes also. And yet there is a virtuous man, whom I have often noted in thy company, but I know not his name. P. Hen. What manner of man, an it like your majesty ? Fal. A good portly man, i' faith, and a corpulent; of a cheerful look, a pleasing eye, and a most noble carriage; and, as I think, his age some fifty, or, by 'r lady, inclining to threescore; and now I remember me, his name is Falstaff: if that man should be lewdly given, he deceiveth me; for, A truant. |