Mistress Quickly:
Prithee, honey-sweet husband, let me bring thee to Staines.
Ancient Pistol:
No; for my manly heart doth yearn. Bardolph, be blithe: Nym, rouse thy vaunting veins: Boy, bristle thy courage up; for Falstaff he is dead, And we must yearn therefore.
Boy:
Well, Sir John is gone. God be with him.
Lieutenant Bardolph:
Would I were with him, wheresome'er he is, either in heaven or in hell!
Mistress Quickly:
Nay, sure, he's not in hell: he's in Arthur's bosom, if ever man went to Arthur's bosom.
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05/03/2025 alle ore 07:44
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