Bardolph, be blithe; Nym, rouse thy vaunting veins; 4
Boy, bristle thy courage up; for Falstaff he is dead,
And we must yearn therefore.
Bard. Would I were with him, wheresome'er
he is, either in heaven or in hell! 8
Host. Nay, sure, he's not in hell: he's in Ar-
thur's bosom, if ever man went to Arthur's bo-
som. A' made a finer end and went away an it
had been any christom child; a' parted even just 12
between twelve and one, even at the turning o'
the tide: for after I saw him fumble with the
sheets and play with flowers and smile upon his
fingers' ends, I knew there was but one way; for 16
his nose was as sharp as a pen, and a' babbled of
green fields. 'How now, Sir John!' quoth I:
'what, man! be of good cheer.' So a' cried out
'God, God, God!' three or four times: now I, 20
to comfort him, bid him a' should not think of
God, I hoped there was no need to trouble him-
self with any such thoughts yet. So a' bade me
lay more clothes on his feet: I put my hand 24
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
any stone. 28
Nym. They say he cried out of sack.
Host. Ay, that a' did.
Bard. And of women.
Host. Nay, that a' did not. 32
9 Arthur's bosom; cf. n.
11 A': he
an: as if
12 christom: not yet a month old
17, 18 and a' babbled of green fields; cf. n.
29 of: against
sack: a white wine
