| FALSTAFF For God's sake, lords, convey my tristful queen; | |
| For tears do stop the flood-gates of her eyes. | |
| Hostess O Jesu, he doth it as like one of these harlotry | |
| players as ever I see! | |
| FALSTAFF Peace, good pint-pot; peace, good tickle-brain. | |
| Harry, I do not only marvel where thou spendest thy | |
| time, but also how thou art accompanied: for though | |
| the camomile, the more it is trodden on the faster | |
| it grows, yet youth, the more it is wasted the | |
| sooner it wears. That thou art my son, I have | |
| partly thy mother's word, partly my own opinion, | |
| but chiefly a villanous trick of thine eye and a | |
| foolish-hanging of thy nether lip, that doth warrant | |
| me. If then thou be son to me, here lies the point; | |
| why, being son to me, art thou so pointed at? Shall | |
| the blessed sun of heaven prove a micher and eat | |
| blackberries? a question not to be asked. Shall | |
| the sun of England prove a thief and take purses? a | |