PRINCE HENRY, POINS, PETO, and BARDOLPH enter.
Come on, hide, hide! I stole Falstaff’s horse, and he’s rubbed the wrong way; he’s fraying like cheap velvet.
POINS, PETO and BARDOLPH exit.
Poins! Poins, damn you! Poins!
Quiet, you fat-bellied jerk! What a racket you’re making!
Where’s Poins, Hal?
He walked up the hill. I’ll go find him.
I got a raw deal, to be out robbing with him. He stole my horse and tied him up someplace. If I have to walk even four feet more, I’ll be totally out of breath. Still, I bet I’ll die a natural death—if I don’t get hanged for killing that jerk, that is. Every hour for the past twenty-two years, I’ve sworn I’d never talk to him again, but I love his company. He must have slipped me a love potion that makes me adore him. Damn, that must be it: I have drunk love potions. Poins! Hal! Drop dead, the both of you! Bardolph! Peto! I’ll die if I have to walk another foot. If turning honest and abandoning these jerks weren’t the best things I could possibly do for myself, then I’m the worst scoundrel that ever lived. Eight yards of rough road is like seventy miles to me, and these hard-hearted crooks know it. It stinks when there’s no honor among thieves.