Henry IV, Part II

What’s your name, sir? What’s your rank, and where are you from?

I am a knight, sir. My name is Coleville of the Valley.

Well, then, Coleville is your name, your rank is knight, and the valley is where you’re from. Coleville will still be your name now that “traitor” is your rank, and the dungeon is where you’ll be. It’s a place so deep that you’ll still be in a kind of valley.

Aren’t you Sir John Falstaff?

I’m as good a man as Falstaff, whoever I am. Will you surrender? Or am I going to have to break a sweat making you surrender? If I sweat, the drops will be the tears of your loved ones, weeping over your death. So you’d better get scared and start to shake, and start praying to me for mercy.

I think you are Sir John Falstaff, and so I surrender.

My enormous belly can speak in many languages, and each language proclaims my name and my name alone. If I had a moderately sized belly, all I’d be is an anonymous but very successful soldier. But my belly, my belly, my belly blows my cover. Here comes the general.

The danger’s over: let’s stop here.

Call off the operation, Westmoreland.

Falstaff, where have you been all this time? When everything is over, that’s when you start. This habit of laziness of yours will bust a gallows to bits one of these days, mark my words.

I’m sorry to hear you say that: I never realized that brave behavior should be rewarded with scolding and admonishing. Do you think I’m a bird, or an arrow, or a bullet? With this old, broken-down body, do you think I can move as fast as thought? I’ve gotten here as fast as humanly possible. I’ve burned out more than 180 horses, and—even though I’m spent from all that travel—I’ve managed, with my extraordinary bravery, to capture Sir John Coleville of the Valley, a brave knight and terrible enemy. But so what? He simply saw me and surrendered. So I can say, just like Julius Caesar, that “I came, I saw, I conquered.”

He was just being polite; it’s not as if you did something to deserve it.

I don’t know about that. Here he is: I turn him over to you. Please, sir, have it added to the record of things accomplished today. If you don’t, I’ll have a ballad printed about it, with a picture of Coleville kissing my foot on the cover. And if I’m forced to do that, and I don’t make you look like counterfeits next to me, and if my fame doesn’t outshine yours like the full moon outshines the stars (which look like pin pricks in the sky next to the moon)—well then, you can call me a liar. Now give me what I deserve, and let my merits mount on top of each other, in a great pile.

Your pile would be too heavy for me to bear.

Let my merits shine, then.

You’re too dense to shine.

Then let it do something that will do me good, whatever you want to call it.

Is your name Coleville?

It is, sir.

You’re a famous rebel, Coleville.

And a famous and loyal subject captured him.

I’m now in the same situation as my superiors, who led me here. But if I had been in charge, your victory would have cost you more than it has.

I don’t know how much your superiors cost us, but you, like a generous man, gave yourself away for free, and I thank you for it.

Have you called off the troops?

The order to pull back has been given, and the slaughter has been stopped.

Send Coleville and his confederates to York, to be put to death immediately. Blunt, lead him away, and guard him carefully.

And now, let’s get going back to the royal court: I understand that the King, my father, is gravely ill. Send news of our victory ahead of us. (to WESTMORELAND) You, cousin, will bring him this news and comfort him with it. We’ll follow you as quickly as we can.

Sir, please give me permission to go via Gloucestershire. When you get to the court, please vouch for my good work here.

Goodbye, Falstaff. By speaking on your behalf as a prince, I’ll be speaking better of you than you deserve.

I wish you had the wit to accomplish that: it would be worth all your land. My goodness, this young, serious-minded boy doesn’t like me, and no one can make him laugh. But I guess that’s not surprising; after all, he doesn’t drink any wine. None of those prim boys ever amount to anything: weak beer and too many fish dinners makes their blood cool. They all turn anemic, like young girls. And then, when they finally get married, they can only father girls because they don’t have the stuff to produce sons. Non-drinkers are all generally fools and cowards. The rest of us would probably be the same way, except that we’re always drunk. A good sherry wine operates in two ways. First, it rises into the brain and dries out all the foolish, dull, clogged-up fogs that have gathered there. It makes the brain sharp, quick, and inventive; full of nimble, fiery, and beautiful ideas. The voice and tongue give birth to those ideas which, when they grow up, become excellent wit. The second power of good wine is the warming of the blood. Before wine, the blood is cold and sluggish, and this makes the liver—the organ of passion—chilly and pale. A chilly, pale liver is the sign of cowardice and faint-heartedness. But wine warms the blood, making it course from the inner organs to all the extremities. The blood brightens the face, and the rest of the body—which is like a little kingdom in itself—takes that brightening as a signal. Then the spirits of the blood and all the internal organs gather together behind their captain: the heart. The heart draws strength from these followers and, enlarged by them, can accomplish any courageous deed. This is the bravery that comes from wine. Without wine, skill in weaponry doesn’t matter. Wine is what sets that skill in motion. Education is nothing more than idle gold in the devil’s hands, until wine rouses it and puts it to good use. That’s how Prince Harry became valiant. He’s taken the cold blood he inherited from his father and—like unproductive farmland—he fertilized it, planted it, and cared for it, through the hard work of drinking vast amounts of good and potent wine. And so now, he’s become hot and courageous. If I had a thousand sons, the first rule of behavior I would teach them would be to avoid weak drinks, and get themselves addicted to wine.

What is it, Bardolph?

The army is dismissed, and everyone’s gone.

Let them go. I’ll head to Gloucestershire. I’ll visit Master Robert Shallow, Esquire. I’ve already got him under my thumb, as soft as wax. Soon I’ll seal the deal. Let’s go.