Prithee, honey, sweet husband, let me bring thee to Staines.
please, honey, sweet husband, let me bring you to Staines.
please, honey, sweet husband, let me bring you to Staines.
please, honey, sweet husband, let me bring you to staines.
No; for my manly heart doth yearn.
Bardolph, be blithe; Nym, rouse thy vaunting veins;
Boy, bristle thy courage up; for Falstaff he is dead,
And we must yearn therefore.
No; for my manly heart does yearn. Bardolph, be blithe; Nym, rouse your vaunting veins; Boy, bristle your courage up; for Falstaff he is dead, And we must yearn therefore.
No; for my manly heart does yearn. Bardolph, be blithe; Nym, rouse your vaunting veins; Boy, br'stle your courage up; for Falstaff he 's dead, And we must yearn therefore.
no; for my manly heart does yearn. bardolph, be blithe; nym, rouse your vaunting
Would I were with him, wheresome’er he is, either in heaven or in hell!
Would I were with him, wheresome’er he is, either in heaven or in hell!
Would I were with him, wheresome’er he is, either in heaven or in hell!
Would I were with him, wheresome’er he is, either in heaven
Nay, sure, he’s not in hell. He’s in Arthur’s bosom, if ever man went
to Arthur’s bosom. ’A 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’ the tide: for after I saw him fumble with the sheets, and
play with flowers, and smile upon his fingers’ ends, I knew there was
but one way; for his nose was as sharp as a pen, and ’a babbled of
green fields. “How now, Sir John!” quoth I; “what, man! be o’ good
cheer.” So ’a cried out, “God, God, God!” three or four times. Now I,
to comfort him, bid him ’a should not think of God; 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 any stone. Then I felt to his knees, and so
upward and upward, and all was as cold as any stone.
no, sure, he’s not in hell. He’s in Arthur’s bosom, if ever man went to Arthur’s bosom. ’A 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’ the tide: for after I saw him fumble with the sheets, and play with flowers, and smile upon his fingers’ ends, I knew there was but one way; for his nose was as sharp as a pen, and ’a babbled of green fields. “How now, Sir John!” quoth I; “what, man! be o’ good cheer.” So ’a cried out, “God, God, God!” three or four times. Now I, to comfort him, bid him ’a should not think of God; 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 any stone. Then I felt to his knees, and so upward and upward, and all was as cold as any stone.
no, sure, he’s not in hell. He’s in Arthur’s bosom, if ever man went to Arthur’s bosom. ’A made a finer end and went away an it had been any chr'stom child. ’A parted even just between twelve and one, even at the turning o’ the tide: for after I saw him fumble with the sheets, and play with flowers, and smile upon h's fingers’ ends, I knew there was but one way; for h's nose was as sharp as a pen, and ’a babbled of green fields. “How now, Sir John!” quoth I; “what, man! be o’ good cheer.” So ’a cried out, “God, God, God!” three or four times. Now I, to comfort him, bid him ’a should not think of God; I hop’d there was no need to trouble himself with any such thoughts yet. So ’a bade me lay more clothes on h's feet. I put my hand into the bed and felt them, and they were as cold as any stone. Then I felt to h's knees, and so upward and upward, and all was as cold as any stone.
no, sure, he’s not in hell. he’s in arthur’s bosom, if ever man went to arthur’s
They say he cried out of sack.
They say he cried out of sack.
They say he cried out of sack.
They say he cried out of sack.
Ay, that ’a did.
Ay, that ’a did.
Ay, that ’a did.
Ay, that ’a did.
And of women.
And of women.
And of women.
And of women.
The decision to report Falstaff's death rather than dramatize it is one of the most consequential artistic choices in the play. If Falstaff appeared, he would dominate the scene — and complicate everything. Henry cannot be the uncomplicated hero this play sometimes asks him to be if Falstaff is present, because Falstaff is the living emblem of everything Henry rejected when he became king. By killing him off-screen, Shakespeare gives us maximum pathos (the death is more moving for being reported than shown) while allowing the play to move on unencumbered. What's extraordinary is that Nell Quickly — a comic malaprop machine — is the one who delivers it. The most moving death in the play is told by the person least equipped to tell it eloquently. And that is exactly why it works.
Nay, that ’a did not.
Nay, that ’a did not.
Nay, that ’a did not.
Nay, that ’a did not.
The Boy is the most clear-eyed character in this play's low-life subplot — young, increasingly disgusted, and ultimately more morally grounded than the men he serves. Watch for his dry commentary; he is the one who will deliver the most damning assessment of Pistol, Nym, and Bardolph in 3-2.
Yes, that ’a did; and said they were devils incarnate.
Yes, that ’a did; and said they were devils incarnate.
Yes, that ’a did; and said they were devils incarnate.
Yes, that ’a did; and said they were devils incarnate.
’A could never abide carnation; ’twas a colour he never liked.
’A could never abide carnation; ’twas a colour he never liked.
’A could never abide carnation; ’twas a colour he never liked.
’A could never abide carnation; ’twas a colour he never like
’A said once, the devil would have him about women.
’A said once, the devil would have him about women.
’A said once, the devil would have him about women.
’A said once, the devil would have him about women.
’A did in some sort, indeed, handle women; but then he was rheumatic,
and talk’d of the whore of Babylon.
’A did in some sort, indeed, handle women; but then he was rheumatic, and talk’d of the whore of Babylon.
’A did in some sort, indeed, handle women; but then he was rheumatic, and talk’d of the whore of Babylon.
’A did in some sort, indeed, handle women; but then he was r
Do you not remember, ’a saw a flea stick upon Bardolph’s nose, and ’a
said it was a black soul burning in hell-fire?
Do you not remember, ’a saw a flea stick upon Bardolph’s nose, and ’a said it was a black soul burning in hell-fire?
Do you not remember, ’a saw a flea stick upon Bardolph’s nose, and ’a said it was a black soul burning in hell-fire?
Do you not remember, ’a saw a flea stick upon Bardolph’s nos
Well, the fuel is gone that maintain’d that fire. That’s all the riches
I got in his service.
Well, the fuel is gone that maintain’d that fire. That’s all the riches I got in his service.
Well, the fuel is gone that maintain’d that fire. That’s all the riches I got in his service.
Well, the fuel is gone that maintain’d that fire. That’s all
Shall we shog? The King will be gone from Southampton.
Shall we shog? The King will be gone from Southampton.
Shall we shog? The King will be gone from Southampton.
Shall we shog? The King will be gone from Southampton.
'A babbled of green fields' — the Folio text printed this as 'a table of greene fields,' which makes no obvious sense. The emendation to 'babbled' was made by Nicholas Rowe in 1709 and has been nearly universally accepted since. What makes the line so powerful is its perfect reversal: Falstaff, the man of taverns, city alleys, royal courts, and comic excess, dies babbling about open green countryside. It is as if his soul — whatever residue of innocence survived all those years of Boar's Head debauchery — surfaced at the end, reaching back toward pastoral simplicity. Shakespeare might not have written these exact words. But whoever found them found the most affecting image in the scene.
Come, let’s away. My love, give me thy lips.
Look to my chattels and my movables.
Let senses rule; the word is “Pitch and Pay.”
Trust none;
For oaths are straws, men’s faiths are wafer-cakes
And hold-fast is the only dog, my duck;
Therefore, _Caveto_ be thy counsellor.
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!
Come, let’s away. My love, give me your lips. Look to my chattels and my movables. Let senses rule; the word is “Pitch and Pay.” Trust none; For oaths are straws, men’s faiths are wafer-cakes And hold-fast is the only dog, my duck; Therefore, _Caveto_ be your counsellor. Go, clear your crystals. Yoke-fellows in arms, Let us to France; like horse-leeches, my boys, To suck, to suck, the very blood to suck!
Come, let’s away. My love, give me your lips. Look to my chattels and my movables. Let senses rule; the word 's “Pitch and Pay.” Trust none; For oaths 're straws, men’s faiths 're wafer-cakes And hold-fast 's the only dog, my duck; Therefore, _Caveto_ be your counsellor. Go, clear your crystals. Yoke-fellows in arms, Let us to France; like horse-leeches, my boys, To suck, to suck, the very blood to suck!
come, let’s away. my love, give me your lips. look to my chattels and my movable
And that’s but unwholesome food, they say.
And that’s but unwholesome food, they say.
And that’s but unwholesome food, they say.
And that’s but unwholesome food, they say.
Touch her soft mouth, and march.
Touch her soft mouth, and march.
Touch her soft mouth, and march.
Touch her soft mouth, and march.
Farewell, hostess.
Farewell, hostess.
Farewell, hostess.
Farewell, hostess.
I cannot kiss; that is the humour of it; but, adieu.
I cannot kiss; that is the humour of it; but, adieu.
I cannot kiss; that is the humour of it; but, adieu.
I cannot kiss; that is the humour of it; but, adieu.
Let housewifery appear. Keep close, I thee command.
Let housewifery appear. Keep close, I you command.
Let housewifery appear. Keep close, I you command.
let housewifery appear. keep close, i you command.
Farewell; adieu.
Farewell; adieu.
Farewell; adieu.
Farewell; adieu.
The Reckoning
The most moving scene in Act 2, and one of the most moving in the play — entirely in prose, entirely in the mouths of characters who are also figures of fun. Nell Quickly's description of Falstaff dying is the greatest death scene for a character who never appears. It is simultaneously absurd and genuinely tender: the babbling about green fields, the feet cold as stone, the three or four cries of 'God, God, God.' Then Pistol rallies the group into war with the rhetoric of a horse-leech going to suck blood. The contrast is deliberately jarring. Something real has just ended, and these people are heading toward something that will end them too.
If this happened today…
The van is packed, bags in the back, everyone's ready for the road trip they've been dreading. Before they go, the girlfriend pulls them back into the kitchen to tell them about her husband's old friend who died last night. He kept calling out to God. His feet were cold. He seemed to find peace at the end. There's a pause that's hard to fill. Then the loudest one says: 'Right, let's go make some money. Horse-leeches, boys.' Nobody knows whether to laugh or cry. They drive away.