Yfaith, my Lord, they are false: Nay, Ile tickle
ye for a young Prince
Prin. Swearest thou, vngracious Boy? henceforth
ne're looke on me: thou art violently carryed away from
Grace: there is a Deuill haunts thee, in the likenesse of a
fat old Man; a Tunne of Man is thy Companion: Why
do'st thou conuerse with that Trunke of Humors, that
Boulting-Hutch of Beastlinesse, that swolne Parcell of
Dropsies, that huge Bombard of Sacke, that stuft Cloakebagge
of Guts, that rosted Manning Tree Oxe with the
Pudding in his Belly, that reuerend Vice, that grey iniquitie,
that Father Ruffian, that Vanitie in yeeres? wherein
is he good, but to taste Sacke, and drinke it? wherein
neat and cleanly, but to carue a Capon, and eat it? wherein
Cunning, but in Craft? wherein Craftie, but in Villanie?
wherein Villanous, but in all things? wherein worthy,
but in nothing?
Falst. I would your Grace would take me with you:
whom meanes your Grace?
Prince. That villanous abhominable mis-leader of
Youth, Falstaffe, that old white-bearded Sathan
Falst. My Lord, the man I know
Prince. I know thou do'st
Falst.
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