Henry IV, Part II

Sirrah, you giant, what did the doctor say about my urine?

He said that the urine itself was good, healthy urine, but that the man who owned it probably had more diseases than he could tell.

All kinds of people make it a matter of pride to heckle me. No man—that foolishly assembled lump of clay—could ever invent something quite as funny as I seem to be to other people. I’m not only witty on my own, but I bring out wit in other people. Look at the two of us, walking here: I look like a sow that’s smothered all of her baby pigs, except for you. If the Prince sent you to serve me for any other reason than to irritate me, I’m a fool. You weedy little son of a bitch: you’re so tiny that you should be a decoration on my hat, not a servant at my feet. I’ve never had a servant before who was as tiny as a ring stone. But I won’t set you in a gold or silver ring; I’ll wrap you in rags and send you back to your master, to be used as a jewel—that youth, the Prince your master, whose chin is still lacking a beard. Why, I’ll grow a beard in the palm of my hand before he’ll have one that he can shave off his face. And yet, this doesn’t stop him from claiming that he has a face for royalty. Well, God will give him a beard whenever he chooses to—there’s not a hair out of place yet. It’s a good thing the Prince’s face is a royal, because a barber will never earn a coin from shaving it. And still, the Prince brags that he’s been a full-grown man since before he was born. He can keep that title, for all I care; I have no affection for him now, I can assure him. What did Master Dommelton say about the satin for my cape and baggy trousers?

He said that you have to give him a better guarantee of payment than just saying Bardolph was good for it. He wouldn’t accept Bardolph’s promise or yours; he felt that neither should be trusted.

Damn him to hell then, just like Dives in the Bible—the rich glutton who rejected the beggar Lazarus! And may Dommelton burn even hotter! He’s a son-of-a-bitch traitor! A two-faced liar, who smiles and says “Yes sir, that’ll be fine” to my face, and then demands a guarantee of payment! These bastard shopkeepers, with their fashionable short haircuts, and fancy shoes, and their fat key chains on their belts—you make an agreement to put something on credit, and then they throw a “guarantee of payment” at you. I would rather eat rat poison than guarantee my payment. I expected him to send me twenty-two yards of satin, and instead he sends me a “guarantee of payment.” Well, let him guarantee himself a good night’s sleep. After all, his wife’s in somebody else’s bed, so why not? She’s practically shining a spotlight on her adultery, but he’s so clueless he can’t even tell. Where’s Bardolph?

He went to Smithfield to buy you a horse, sir.

I bought Bardolph at St. Paul’s Cathedral, and he’s buying me a horse in Smithfield. Now if he could just find me a wife in a whorehouse, I’d be fully stocked with high-quality servants, horses, and wives.

Sir, here comes the man who put the Prince in jail for hitting him during that argument about Bardolph.

Hide; I don’t want to talk to him.

Who is that man?

Falstaff, if it please you, sir.

The man who was a suspect in that robbery?

That’s the one. But he did good work in the Battle of Shrewsbury, and I hear he’s taking some soldiers to help Lord John of Lancaster.

Where, to York? Tell him to come here.

Sir John Falstaff!

Boy, tell him I’m deaf.

You have to speak up; my master is deaf.

I’m sure he is, when anything good’s being said. Go, tap him on the shoulder. I must speak with him.

Sir John!

What? A young troublemaker? A beggar? Isn’t there a war on? Isn’t there work to do? Doesn’t the King need subjects? Don’t the rebels need soldiers? Though it’s shameful to be on any side but the King’s, it’s even more shameful to be an idle beggar than a soldier on wrong side—even if the rebellion were more despicable than the word “rebellion” already leads me to believe.

You’re mistaken, sir.

Why is that? Did I say you were an honest man? Because, setting aside the fact that I’m knight and a soldier, I’d be nothing but a liar if I said that.

Then please, sir, set aside your knighthood and your soldiership and let me tell you that you’re a deliberate liar, if you say I’m anything other than an honest man.

Should I allow you to say that? Should I set aside something that’s mine by right? If I allow you anything, hang me. If you allow yourself, hang you. You’re running in the wrong direction: get out of here! Go!

Sir, my master wants to speak with you.

Sir John Falstaff, I’d like a word with you.

My good sir! God grant you a good day! It’s great to see you out and about: I’d heard you were sick. I hope your doctor knows you’re out. Though you’re not entirely past your youth, your lordship, you have a touch of age in you, a touch of the passage of time, and I must humbly urge you to take good care of your health.

Sir John, I sent for you to come see me before you left for Shrewsbury.

If you don’t mind my saying so, I hear the King is back from Wales and it didn’t go so well.

I’m not talking about the King. You didn’t come when I sent for you.

And I also hear that the King has fallen into a terrible paralysis.

Well, God give him a speedy recovery. Please, let me speak with you.

His paralysis is, as I understand it, a kind of lethargy, if it please you. It’s a sleepiness in the blood, a nasty tingling.

Why are you telling me this? Let it be.

It comes from heavy sadness; from too much reading, and too much thinking. I read about it in the reference books: it’s a kind of deafness.

I think you must have that disease as well, because you’re not hearing a word I’m saying.

Very likely, my lord, very likely. But actually, sir, I have the not-listening disease; I have the not-paying-attention sickness.

The cure for that illness would be to put you in shackles, and I wouldn’t mind being your doctor.

I may be as poor as Job, but I’m not as patient. You may be able to throw me in jail because of my poverty, but some people might have slight reservations about that.

I sent for you to come speak with me. There were charges against you that might have earned you the death penalty.

I was advised that, since I was working for the army at the time, I shouldn’t go.

The truth is, Sir John, that you are massively notorious.

Anybody who wears a belt this big couldn’t be anything less than massive.

Your bank account is thin, and yet you put it to huge waste.

I wish it were the other way around: that my bank account were huge and my waist were thin.

You’ve misled the young Prince.

The young Prince has misled me. I’m the man with the big belly, and he’s the dog who walks in front of me.

Well, I’d rather not open up a wound that’s just healed. The good work you did at Shrewsbury has made up a little for the bad thing you did at Gad’s Hill. You can thank the rebellion for helping you get away with that terrible deed.

Really?

But since things are calm now, let’s keep them that way. We won’t wake a sleeping wolf.

To wake a wolf is as bad as to smell a fox.

What? You’re like a candle, half burned out.

Maybe, if I were a big, fat holiday candle made of animal fat. But you’d be better off saying that I’m a wax candle: I keep “waxing” larger and larger.

Your gray beard should be a sign that you’re a man of gravity.

I’m a man of gravy, gravy, gravy.

You follow the young Prince everywhere, like a false angel on his shoulder.

That’s not so, my lord. False angels are light, and anyone can see without having to weigh me that I’m too heavy. But I don’t know; in some ways, you’re right. I’m not for these times. Virtue counts for so little in this commercial world of ours. True courage is worthless; it’s only used by animal trainers in the bear-baiting rings. Intelligence is good for nobody but bartenders, who waste their wits totaling up tavern bills. In these mean-spirited days, man’s best qualities aren’t worth a thing. You older folks don’t value us young people. You measure our fiery passion according to your melancholic bitterness. And I have to tell you, those of us who are highly advanced in our youth, we’re spirited as well as young.

You’d add your name to the list of the young? You, who have age written all over you? Don’t you have mucus in your eyes? Dry skin? Jaundice? A white beard? An arthritic leg? A growing belly? Isn’t your voice scratchy? Your breath short? Your chin doubled? Your last wit abandoned? Isn’t every part of you devastated by age? And still you call yourself young? Shame on you, Sir John.

Sir, I was born around three o’clock in the afternoon, with a white head and a bit of a round belly. As for my scratchy voice, I lost it through shouting and singing loud songs. But I won’t try to prove how young I am any longer. I have only one trait of old age, and that is wisdom. If somebody wants to challenge me to a dance contest for a thousand-mark wager, let him hand me the money and off we go. Now, as for the fact that the Prince hit you on the head, he did it like a rude prince and you took it like a sensible gentleman. I reprimanded him for it, and he repents. He’s not wearing the traditional sackcloth and ashes, for sure, but he’s repenting in silk cloth and wine.

May God send the Prince a better friend!

May God send the friend a better prince! I can’t get him off my hands!

Well, the King has separated you and Prince Harry. I hear you’re going with John of Lancaster to go fight Northumberland and the Archbishop.

Yes, and thanks for reminding me. I hope that all of you who stay home, safe and sound, will say a prayer that we soldiers don’t end up in some hot battle. For, by the Lord, I’ve only packed two shirts, and I don’t want to sweat too much. If things get hot and I pull out any other weapon besides a bottle, I’ll never drink wine again. I get sent out on every dangerous assignment that comes up. Well, I can’t live forever. That’s the thing about the English: when they have something good, they use it continually. If you’re going to insist that I’m an old man, then let me rest. I wish to God the enemy weren’t as scared of me as they are: I’d rather sit and rust than be worn out by all this work.

Well, stay honest, stay honest. God bless your undertaking.

Could your lordship lend me a thousand pounds for some equipment I need?

Not a penny, not a penny: you’re too impatient to endure adversity. Farewell; give my regards to my kinsman Westmoreland.

If I do, hit me with a sledgehammer. Old age and greed go together like youth and lust. Gout afflicts one and syphilis plagues the other, so there’s no point in me cursing either the old or the young: they’re both cursed already. Boy!

Sir?

How much money’s in my wallet?

About seven groats and two pence.

There no way to cure the illness that’s making my wallet waste away; borrowing makes it live a little longer, but the disease is incurable. Bring this letter to Lord John of Lancaster, this one to the Prince, this one to Westmoreland, and this one to Madame Ursula. I’ve promised to marry her every single week since I got my first gray hair. Get going: you know where I’ll be.

Damn this gout! Or damn this syphilis! One of them is really messing up my big toe. Oh well, it doesn’t matter if I limp. I can blame it on the war, and that will help justify my disability payments. A sharp brain can turn any problem to its advantage. I’ll turn my diseases into cash.