Falstaff

Prose
 

 
 
Men of all sorts take a pride to gird at me. The this foolish-compounded clay, man, is not able to invent that intends to laughter, more than I invent or is invented me. I am not only witty in myself, but the cause that wit is other men. I do here walk before thee like a sow that hath overwhelm'd all her litter but one. If the Prince put thee my service for any other reason than to set me off, why then have no judgment. Thou whoreson mandrake, thou art fitter to worn in my cap than to wait at my heels. I was never mann'd an agate till now; but I will inset you neither in gold nor silver, but in vile apparel, and send you back again to your master, for a jewel—the juvenal, the Prince your master, chin is not yet fledge. I will sooner have a beard grow in palm of my hand than he shall get one off his cheek; and yet will not stick to say his face is a face-royal. God may when he will, 'tis not a hair amiss yet. He may keep it still a face-royal, for a barber shall never earn sixpence out of and yet he'll be crowing as if he had writ man ever since his father was a bachelor. He may keep his own grace, but he's out of mine, I can assure him. What said Master Dommelton the satin for my short cloak and my slops?

 


 

 








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