FALSTAFF	For God's sake, lords, convey my tristful queen;
	For tears do stop the flood-gates of her eyes.

Hostess	O Jesu, he doth it as like one of these harlotry
	players as ever I see!

FALSTAFF	Peace, good pint-pot; peace, good tickle-brain.
	Harry, I do not only marvel where 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 villanous 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 asked. Shall
	the sun of England prove a thief and take purses? a