re 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 villainous 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
ask'd. Shall the son of England prove a thief, and take purses? a
question to be ask'd. There is a thing, Harry, which thou hast often
heard of, and it is known to many in our land by the name of pitch:
this pitch, as ancient writers do report, doth defile; so doth the
company thou keepest: for, Harry, now I do not speak to thee in
drink, but in tears; not in pleasure, but in passion; not in words
only, but in woes also:--and yet there is a virtuous man, whom I have
often noted in thy company, but I know not his name.

_P. Henry._ What manner of man, an it like your majesty?

_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