Enter PISTOL, HOSTESS, NYM, BARDOLPH, and BOY
Prithee, honey-sweet husband, let me bring thee to Staines.
No; for my manly heart doth earn.—Bardolph, be blithe.—
Nym, rouse thy vaunting veins.—Boy, bristle thy courage
up. For Falstaff, he is dead, and we must earn therefore.
5Would I were with him, wheresome'er he is, either in
heaven or in hell.
Nay, sure, he’s not in hell! He’s in Arthur’s bosom, if ever
man went to Arthur’s bosom. He made a finer end, and
went away an it had been any christom child. He parted
ev'n just between twelve and one, ev'n at the turning o' th'
tide; for after I saw him fumble with the sheets and play
with flowers and smile upon his finger’s end, I knew there
was but one way, for his nose was as sharp as a pen, and he
told of green fields. “How now, Sir John?” quoth I. “What,
man, be o' good cheer!” So he cried out “God, God, God!”
three or four times. Now I, to comfort him, bid him he
should not think of God. I hoped there was no need to
trouble himself with any such thoughts yet. So he 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
They say he cried out of sack.