By Heauen (Poines) I feele me much to blame,
So idly to prophane the precious time,
When Tempest of Commotion, like the South,
Borne with black Vapour, doth begin to melt,
And drop vpon our bare vnarmed heads.
Giue me my Sword, and Cloake:
Falstaffe, good night.
Enter.
Falst. Now comes in the sweetest Morsell of the
night, and wee must hence, and leaue it vnpickt. More
knocking at the doore? How now? what's the matter?
Bard. You must away to Court, Sir, presently,
A dozen Captaines stay at doore for you
Falst. Pay the Musitians, Sirrha: farewell Hostesse,
farewell Dol. You see (my good Wenches) how men of
Merit are sought after: the vndeseruer may sleepe, when
the man of Action is call'd on. Farewell good Wenches:
if I be not sent away poste, I will see you againe, ere I
goe
Dol. I cannot speake: if my heart bee not readie
to burst- Well (sweete Iacke) haue a care of thy
selfe
Falst. Farewell, farewell.
Enter.
Host. Well, fare thee well: I haue knowne thee
these twentie nine yeeres, come Pescod-time: but an
honester, and truer-hearted man- Well, fare thee
well
Bard.
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