Act 1, Scene 3

Original Text

*A room in the Garter Inn. Enter Falstaff, Host, Bardolph, Nym, Pistol, and Robin.* FALSTAFF. Mine host of the Garter! HOST. What says my bully rook? Speak scholarly and wisely. FALSTAFF. Truly, mine host, I must turn away some of my followers. HOST. Discard, bully Hercules; cashier. Let them wag; trot, trot. FALSTAFF. I sit at ten pounds a week. HOST. Thou'rt an emperor—Caesar, Keiser, and Pheazar. I will entertain Bardolph. He shall draw, he shall tap. Said I well, bully Hector? FALSTAFF. Do so, good mine host. HOST. I have spoke, let him follow.—Let me see thee froth and lime. I am at a word, follow. *[Exit Host.]*

Modern English

*A room at the Garter Inn. Falstaff, the Host, Bardolph, Nym, Pistol, and Robin enter.* FALSTAFF. Landlord! HOST. What does my fine fellow want? Speak up, bright and sensible. FALSTAFF. Honestly, landlord, I'm going to have to let some of my men go. HOST. Cut them loose, my big Hercules — fire them! Let them go; out the door, off they trot. FALSTAFF. My lodgings here cost me ten pounds a week. HOST. You're an emperor — a Caesar, a Kaiser, a Pharaoh, the whole lot! I'll take on Bardolph myself. He can pour drinks, man the tap. How's that, my great Hector? FALSTAFF. Perfect, good landlord. HOST. Done — I've spoken, let him follow me. I want to see him froth the ale and work the room. I'm a man of my word — follow me. *[The Host exits.]*

Original Text

FALSTAFF. Bardolph, follow him. A tapster is a good trade. An old cloak makes a new jerkin; a withered servingman a fresh tapster. Go, adieu. BARDOLPH. It is a life that I have desired. I will thrive. PISTOL. O base Hungarian wight, wilt thou the spigot wield? *[Exit Bardolph.]* NYM. He was gotten in drink. Is not the humour conceited?

Modern English

FALSTAFF. Bardolph, go with him. Tending bar is an honest living. An old coat can be cut into a new vest; a worn-out servant can make a fresh tapster. Go, farewell. BARDOLPH. This is exactly the life I've always wanted. I'll do well. PISTOL. What a low, wretched creature — going to pump a beer keg for a living? *[Bardolph exits.]* NYM. He was born drunk. Isn't that a mood?

Original Text

FALSTAFF. I am glad I am so acquit of this tinderbox. His thefts were too open. His filching was like an unskilful singer, he kept not time. NYM. The good humour is to steal at a minute's rest. PISTOL. "Convey," the wise it call. "Steal?" Foh! A _fico_ for the phrase!

Modern English

FALSTAFF. I'm glad to be rid of that little firebrand. His stealing was far too obvious. His pilfering was like a tone-deaf singer — no sense of timing whatsoever. NYM. The real move is to steal with perfect discretion, when no one's watching. PISTOL. The smart ones call it "conveying." "Steal?" Ugh! A rude word for a refined practice!

Original Text

FALSTAFF. Well, sirs, I am almost out at heels. PISTOL. Why, then, let kibes ensue. FALSTAFF. There is no remedy, I must cony-catch, I must shift. PISTOL. Young ravens must have food. FALSTAFF. Which of you know Ford of this town? PISTOL. I ken the wight, he is of substance good.

Modern English

FALSTAFF. Well, gentlemen, I'm nearly flat broke. PISTOL. Then let the blisters come — that's what bare heels get you. FALSTAFF. There's nothing for it; I have to run a con, I have to hustle. PISTOL. Young birds of prey need feeding. FALSTAFF. Which of you knows a man called Ford — lives in this town? PISTOL. I know the fellow. He's well off, solid money.

Original Text

FALSTAFF. My honest lads, I will tell you what I am about. PISTOL. Two yards, and more. FALSTAFF. No quips now, Pistol. Indeed, I am in the waist two yards about, but I am now about no waste; I am about thrift. Briefly, I do mean to make love to Ford's wife. I spy entertainment in her. She discourses, she carves, she gives the leer of invitation. I can construe the action of her familiar style; and the hardest voice of her behaviour, to be Englished rightly, is "I am Sir John Falstaff's."

Modern English

FALSTAFF. Right, my honest lads — let me tell you what I'm up to. PISTOL. Two yards around, and then some. FALSTAFF. No jokes, Pistol. Yes, I'm two yards around the middle — but what I'm about now has nothing to do with waste; it's about profit. In short: I intend to court Ford's wife. I can see she's interested. She talks, she flirts, she shoots glances of invitation across the room. I can read every move in her friendly manner; and if you translate her most guarded behavior into plain English, it says: "I belong to Sir John Falstaff."

Original Text

PISTOL. He hath studied her will and translated her will—out of honesty into English. NYM. The anchor is deep. Will that humour pass? FALSTAFF. Now, the report goes she has all the rule of her husband's purse. He hath a legion of angels. PISTOL. As many devils entertain, and "To her, boy," say I. NYM. The humour rises; it is good. Humour me the angels.

Modern English

PISTOL. He's studied her intentions and translated them — from virtue into plain English. NYM. He's in deep water. Can that mood actually play out? FALSTAFF. Word is, she controls her husband's entire purse. The man has a fortune — a whole army's worth of gold coins. PISTOL. Let as many devils come answer it, and I say go after her, boy! NYM. The mood is rising — I like it. Let the gold coins flow my way too.

Original Text

FALSTAFF. I have writ me here a letter to her; and here another to Page's wife, who even now gave me good eyes too, examined my parts with most judicious oeillades. Sometimes the beam of her view gilded my foot, sometimes my portly belly. PISTOL. Then did the sun on dunghill shine. NYM. I thank thee for that humour.

Modern English

FALSTAFF. I've written her a letter right here; and here's another to Page's wife — who just gave me very encouraging looks, took stock of me with a most practiced and deliberate eye. Sometimes her gaze rested on my foot, sometimes traveled up to my ample belly. PISTOL. So the sun shone down on a dunghill. NYM. I appreciate that particular mood.

Original Text

FALSTAFF. O, she did so course o'er my exteriors with such a greedy intention that the appetite of her eye did seem to scorch me up like a burning-glass. Here's another letter to her. She bears the purse too; she is a region in Guiana, all gold and bounty. I will be cheaters to them both, and they shall be exchequers to me; they shall be my East and West Indies, and I will trade to them both. Go, bear thou this letter to Mistress Page;—and thou this to Mistress Ford. We will thrive, lads, we will thrive.

Modern English

FALSTAFF. Oh, she let her eyes run all over me with such hungry focus that the force of her gaze felt like a magnifying glass scorching me in the sun. Here's the letter for her. She holds the purse strings too — she's a whole province of Guiana, pure gold. I'll play the swindler to both of them, and they'll be my personal treasury; my East and West Indies both, and I'll do trade with each. Here — take this letter to Mistress Page, and you take this one to Mistress Ford. We will thrive, lads, we will thrive.

Original Text

PISTOL. Shall I Sir Pandarus of Troy become, And by my side wear steel? Then Lucifer take all! NYM. I will run no base humour. Here, take the humour-letter. I will keep the 'haviour of reputation.

Modern English

PISTOL. Am I to become a Pandarus — a go-between — with a sword on my hip? Then the devil can take everything! NYM. I won't run that shameful errand. Here — take your letter back yourself. I intend to keep my good name.

Original Text

FALSTAFF. [*To Robin*.] Hold, sirrah, bear you these letters tightly; Sail like my pinnace to these golden shores.— Rogues, hence, avaunt! Vanish like hailstones, go! Trudge, plod away o' th' hoof, seek shelter, pack! Falstaff will learn the humour of this age: French thrift, you rogues—myself and skirted page. *[Exeunt Falstaff and Robin.]*

Modern English

FALSTAFF. [*To Robin.*] Here, boy — carry these letters carefully; sail like my fast little ship straight to those golden shores. As for you rogues — out! Vanish like hailstones, go! March away on foot, find your own shelter, clear off! Falstaff knows which way the wind blows these days: travel light — just me and my page boy. French thrift, you rogues! *[Falstaff and Robin exit.]*

Original Text

PISTOL. Let vultures gripe thy guts! For gourd and fullam holds, And high and low beguile the rich and poor. Tester I'll have in pouch when thou shalt lack, Base Phrygian Turk! NYM. I have operations in my head which be humours of revenge. PISTOL. Wilt thou revenge? NYM. By welkin and her star!

Modern English

PISTOL. Let the vultures have your guts! Loaded dice win every game, and high rollers and low alike fleece the rich and the poor. I'll have a coin in my pocket when you're penniless, you contemptible wretch! NYM. I've got plans forming in my head — revenge moods. PISTOL. Will you get revenge? NYM. By heaven and every star in it!

Original Text

PISTOL. With wit or steel? NYM. With both the humours, I. I will discuss the humour of this love to Ford. PISTOL. And I to Page shall eke unfold How Falstaff, varlet vile, His dove will prove, his gold will hold, And his soft couch defile.

Modern English

PISTOL. With brains or blades? NYM. Both moods, working together. I'll go tell Ford all about this little love scheme. PISTOL. And I'll go to Page and lay out the whole story — how Falstaff, that vile scoundrel, means to seduce his wife, pocket his gold, and dirty his marriage bed.

Original Text

NYM. My humour shall not cool. I will incense Ford to deal with poison, I will possess him with yellowness, for the revolt of mine is dangerous. That is my true humour. PISTOL. Thou art the Mars of malcontents. I second thee. Troop on. *[Exeunt.]*

Modern English

NYM. My mood for revenge won't cool. I'll stir Ford up until he's out for blood — I'll fill him with jealousy so thick he chokes on it. My breaking with Falstaff is dangerous business. That's my true mood. PISTOL. You are the god of grudge-holders. I'm with you. Let's move. *[They exit.]*

The Merry Wives of Windsor

Act 1, Scene 3

Act 1, Scene 3