Falstaff.  A goodly portly man, i’faith, and a corpulent; of a cheerful look, a pleasing eye, and a most noble carriage; and, as I think, his age some fifty, or, by’r-lady, inclining to threescore; and now I do remember me, his name is Falstaff:  if that man should be lewdly given, he deceiveth me; for, Harry, I see virtue in his looks.  If then the fruit may be known by the tree, as the tree by the fruit, then peremptorily I speak it, there is virtue in that Falstaff:  him keep with, the rest banish.  And tell me now, thou naughty varlet, tell me, where hast thou been this month?

P. Henry.  Dost thou speak like a king?  Do thou stand for me, and I’ll play my father.

Falstaff.  Depose me? if thou dost it half so gravely, so majestically, both in word and matter, hang me up by the heels for a rabbit-sucker, or a poulterer’s hare.

P. Henry.  Well, here I am set.

Falstaff.  And here I stand:—­judge, my masters.

P. Henry.  Now, Harry, whence come you?

Falstaff.  My noble lord, from Eastcheap.

P. Henry.  The complaints I hear of thee are grievous.

Falstaff.  S’blood, my lord, they are false:—­nay, I’ll tickle ye for a young prince, i’faith.

P. Henry.  Swearest thou, ungracious boy? henceforth ne’er look on me.  Thou art violently carried away from grace:  there is a devil haunts thee, in the likeness of a fat old man; a tun of man is thy companion.  Why dost thou converse with that trunk of humours, that bolting-hutch of beastliness, that swoln parcel of dropsies, that huge bombard of sack, that stuft cloak-bag of guts, that roasted Manning-tree ox with the pudding in his belly, that reverend vice, that grey iniquity, that father ruffian, that vanity in years? wherein is he good, but to taste sack and drink it? wherein neat and cleanly, but to carve a capon and eat it? wherein cunning, but in craft? wherein crafty, but in villainy? wherein villainous, but in all things? wherein worthy, but in nothing?

Falstaff.  I would, your grace would take me with you:  whom means your grace?

P. Henry.  That villainous, abominable mis-leader of youth, Falstaff, that old white-bearded Satan.

Falstaff.  My lord, the man I know.

P. Henry.  I know thou dost.

Falstaff.  But to say, I know more harm in him than in myself, were to say more than I know.  That he is old (the more the pity) his white hairs do witness it:  but that he is (saving your reverence) a whore-master, that I utterly deny.  If sack and sugar be a fault, God help the wicked! if to be old and merry be a sin, then many an old host that I know is damned:  if to be fat be to be hated, then Pharaoh’s lean kine are to be loved.  No, my good lord; banish Peto, banish Bardolph, banish Poins; but for sweet Jack Falstaff, kind Jack Falstaff, true Jack Falstaff, valiant Jack Falstaff, and therefore more valiant, being as he is, old Jack Falstaff, banish not him thy Harry’s company; banish plump Jack, and banish all the world.