Part 6

Cam. For me, the Gold of France did not seduce, Although I did admit it as a motiue, The sooner to effect what I intended: But God be thanked for preuention, Which in sufferance heartily will reioyce, Beseeching God, and you, to pardon mee

Gray. Neuer did faithfull subiect more reioyce At the discouery of most dangerous Treason, Then I do at this houre ioy ore my selfe, Preuented from a damned enterprize; My fault, but not my body, pardon Soueraigne

King. God quit you in his mercy: Hear your sentence You haue conspir'd against Our Royall person, Ioyn'd with an enemy proclaim'd, and from his Coffers, Receyu'd the Golden Earnest of Our death: Wherein you would haue sold your King to slaughter, His Princes, and his Peeres to seruitude, His Subiects to oppression, and contempt, And his whole Kingdome into desolation: Touching our person, seeke we no reuenge, But we our Kingdomes safety must so tender, Whose ruine you sought, that to her Lawes We do deliuer you. Get you therefore hence, (Poore miserable wretches) to your death: The taste whereof, God of his mercy giue You patience to indure, and true Repentance Of all your deare offences. Beare them hence. Enter.

Now Lords for France: the enterprise whereof Shall be to you as vs, like glorious. We doubt not of a faire and luckie Warre, Since God so graciously hath brought to light This dangerous Treason, lurking in our way, To hinder our beginnings. We doubt not now, But euery Rubbe is smoothed on our way. Then forth, deare Countreymen: Let vs deliuer Our Puissance into the hand of God, Putting it straight in expedition. Chearely to Sea, the signes of Warre aduance, No King of England, if not King of France.

Flourish.

Enter Pistoll, Nim, Bardolph, Boy, and Hostesse.

Hostesse. 'Prythee honey sweet Husband, let me bring thee to Staines

Pistoll. No: for my manly heart doth erne. Bardolph, be blythe: Nim, rowse thy vaunting Veines: Boy, brissle thy Courage vp: for Falstaffe hee is dead, and wee must erne therefore

Bard. Would I were with him, wheresomere hee is, eyther in Heauen, or in Hell

Hostesse. Nay sure, hee's not in Hell: hee's in Arthurs Bosome, if euer man went to Arthurs Bosome: a made a finer end, and went away and it had beene any Christome Childe: a parted eu'n iust betweene Twelue and One, eu'n at the turning o'th' Tyde: for after I saw him fumble with the Sheets, and play with Flowers, and smile vpon his fingers end, I knew there was but one way: for his Nose was as sharpe as a Pen, and a Table of greene fields. How now Sir Iohn (quoth I?) what man? be a good cheare: so a cryed out, God, God, God, three or foure times: now I, to comfort him, bid him a should not thinke of God; I hop'd there was no neede to trouble himselfe with any such thoughts yet: so a bad me lay more Clothes on his feet: I put my hand into the Bed, and felt them, and they were as cold as any stone: then I felt to his knees, and so vp-peer'd, and vpward, and all was as cold as any stone

Nim. They say he cryed out of Sack

Hostesse. I, that a did

Bard. And of Women

Hostesse. Nay, that a did not

Boy. Yes that a did, and said they were Deules incarnate

Woman. A could neuer abide Carnation, 'twas a Colour he neuer lik'd

Boy. A said once, the Deule would haue him about Women

Hostesse. A did in some sort (indeed) handle Women: but then hee was rumatique, and talk'd of the Whore of Babylon

Boy. Doe you not remember a saw a Flea sticke vpon Bardolphs Nose, and a said it was a blacke Soule burning in Hell

Bard. Well, the fuell is gone that maintain'd that fire: that's all the Riches I got in his seruice

Nim. Shall wee shogg? the King will be gone from Southampton

Pist. Come, let's away. My Loue, giue me thy Lippes: Looke to my Chattels, and my Moueables: Let Sences rule: The world is, Pitch and pay: trust none: for Oathes are Strawes, mens Faiths are Wafer-Cakes, and hold-fast is the onely Dogge: My Ducke, therefore Caueto bee thy Counsailor. Goe, cleare thy Chrystalls. Yokefellowes in Armes, let vs to France, like Horseleeches my Boyes, to sucke, to sucke, the very blood to sucke

Boy. And that's but vnwholesome food, they say

Pist. Touch her soft mouth, and march

Bard. Farwell Hostesse

Nim. I cannot kisse, that is the humor of it: but adieu

Pist. Let Huswiferie appeare: keepe close, I thee command

Hostesse. Farwell: adieu.