Henry IV, Part II

I swear to God, I’m exceedingly tired.

Really? I would have thought that weariness wouldn’t dare afflict someone as highly born as you.

Well, it afflicts me, although saying so dims my nobility somewhat. Does it make me seem coarse and common to say that I’d love a small beer?

A prince shouldn’t be vulgarly inclined toward things like small beer.

Then I suppose don’t have a prince’s appetite, because right now all I can think about is small beer. But it’s true: all these everyday considerations distance me from my own nobility. It’s disgraceful that I should be familiar with a man like you! To know your name, your face, and your wardrobe so intimately that I know that you have two pairs of stockings: the ones you’re wearing now, and those peach-colored ones. I even know how many shirts you have: one to wear, and one extra. But then, the keeper of the tennis courts knows your wardrobe better than I do, for when you’ve run out of clean shirts, you don’t show up to play. And you haven’t played in a while, because the whore houses have eaten all the rest of your money, which you’d otherwise use to buy more shirts. God only knows whether all the crying brats you’ve fathered will make it to heaven. But then, the midwives say that babies don’t bear the sins of the parents. That’s how the population increases, and families are strengthened.

It seems wrong, after all your hard work in battle, that you should be spending your time now in idle chatter. How many other princes would behave like this if their fathers were as sick as yours?

Can I tell you something, Poins?

Sure; and make sure it’s an excellent thing.

It’ll be fine, for people who aren’t any smarter than you are.

Go ahead. I’m can take whatever you have to say.

Here it is, then. It’s not seemly for me to be sad over my father’s illness. But I could tell you—as a person who, for lack of anyone else, I’m pleased to call my friend—that I could be sad. I could be very sad, indeed.

It would be difficult to feel that way over a thing like this.

I swear, you must think that I’m as sinful as you and Falstaff are, and as stubborn and persistent. We’ll see about that. But I’m telling you: my heart is bleeding for my father, and for his illness. But because I’m hanging out with lowlifes like you, I can’t show how sorrowful I am.

Why?

What would you think of me if I started crying?

I would think you’re a royal hypocrite.

That’s what everyone would be thinking. And what’s great about you is that you think just the way everyone else does: nobody sticks to popular opinion quite as well as you. Everyone would think I was a hypocrite, indeed. And, your honor, what makes you think that?

Because you’ve behaved so badly, and because you’re so attached to Falstaff.

And to you.

Honestly, people think highly of me; I hear their praises with my own ears. The worst thing they can say about me is that, as a younger brother, I’ve had no inheritance from my family, and that I’m a good fighter. And I can’t help either of those things. By God, here comes Bardolph.

And the boy who I sent to work for Falstaff. He was a normal boy when I sent him, and now look: the fat bastard’s turned him into an ape.

God save your grace!

And yours, most noble Bardolph!

(to BARDOLPH) Come on, you principled ass, you timid fool! Why are you blushing? What a womanly solider you are! Is it that big a deal to deflower a two-quart tankard of ale?

Just now he called to me from behind a red window shade, and I couldn’t tell his face from the curtain! Finally I saw his eyes, and I thought he’d made two holes in a whore’s skirt and peeped through them!

This kid’s learned a lot from Falstaff, hasn’t he?

Get out of here, you little rabbit! Get out!

You get out, you rotten Althea’s dream!

What dream, boy? Tell us.

Sir, Althea dreamed she gave birth to a red-hot iron. That’s why I call him her dream; he’s all red in the face.

That joke’s worth a crown! Here you go, boy.

I wish this wholesome little flower could be kept away from disease. Well, here’s a sixpence for you.

If between the three of you this boy doesn’t end up hanged, the gallows will be cheated.

How’s your master Falstaff doing, Bardolph?

Fine, sir. He heard you were coming to town. Here’s a letter for you.

Delivered very respectfully. How is that fattened calf, your boss?

His body’s healthy, sir.

That’s right, it’s just his immortal soul that needs a doctor. But he doesn’t care. His soul may be sick, but it won’t die.

(reads to himself) I allow this wart to be as familiar with me as my dog, and he holds onto his privileged position. Listen to how he writes. (he hands the letter to POINS)

(reads) “John Falstaff, knight”—he always throws that title around, every chance he gets. It’s like people who are related to the King: every time they get a tiny cut, they say, “Some of the King’s blood has been spilled.” Then someone pretends not to get it, and asks, “How do you mean?” The answer comes faster than a beggar can whip out his cap: “I’m the King’s poor relative.”

Right. They all say they’re related to us, even if they have to trace the family tree all the way back to Japhet, the common ancestor of all Europeans. But back to the letter. (takes the letter and reads) “Sir John Falstaff—knight to the son of the King, nearest to his father, Harry Prince of Wales—sends his greetings.”

Listen to that. It sounds like a contract.

Quiet! (reads) “I will copy the Romans in shortness.”

He must mean shortness of breath, and wheezing.

(reads) “I salute myself, I salute you, and I’m done. Don’t get too close to Poins. He takes such rampant advantage of your kindness that he swears you will marry his sister Nell. Confess your sins when you have the time; and with that, farewell. Yours up and down (which is to say, in whatever way you feel like), I remain Jack Falstaff to my friends, John to my brothers and sisters, and Sir John to all Europe.”

Sir, I’ll soak this letter in wine and shove it down his throat.

That would be making him eat twenty of his words. But are you taking advantage of me like he says, Ned? Must I marry your sister?

It would be her lucky day if you did. But I never said that.

Well, we’re wasting time, and the angels in heaven are mocking us. (to BARDOLPH) Is your boss here in London?

Yes, my lord.

Where’s he eating tonight? Is the old pig eating in the old sty?

At the old place, my lord. In Eastcheap.

Who’s with him?

The usual old characters.

Are any women eating with him?

No women sir. Just old Mistress Quickly and Mistress Doll Tearsheet.

What heathen is that?

A proper lady, sir, and my master’s relative.

Exactly the kind of relative as the country cows are to the town bull. Ned, should we spy on them as they eat supper?

I’m after you like a shadow, my lord: I’ll follow you.

Sirrah, you boy, and you, Bardolph—don’t tell your master that I’m back in town. (gives them money) This is for your silence.

I have no tongue to speak with, sir.

As for my tongue, I’ll manage it.

Farewell to you both; go now.

This Doll Tearsheet must be some road.

Truly, she’s as well-traveled as the highway to London.

How can we see Falstaff behave like his true self tonight, and yet not be detected ourselves?

We’ll put on leather jackets and aprons and wait upon him as bartenders.

Should a God disguise himself as a bull? That’s quite a degradation. Well, Jove did it. And should a prince disguise himself as an apprentice bartender and transform into something so lowly? Yes, I will: in every undertaking, the ends must match the means. Follow me, Ned.