Silence. Indeed, sir, to my cost.
Shallow. He must then to the inns of court shortly. I was once of Clement’s inn; where, I think, they will talk of mad Shallow yet.
Silence. You were called lusty Shallow then, cousin.
Shallow. I was called anything, and I would have done anything indeed, and roundly too. There was I, and little John Doit of Staffordshire, and black George Bare, and Francis Pickbone, and Will Squele, a Cotswold man, you had not four such swinge-bucklers in all the inns of court again; and, I may say to you, we knew where the bonarobas were, and had the best of them all at commandment. Then was Jack Falstaff, now Sir John, a boy, and page to Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk.
Silence. This Sir John, cousin, that comes hither anon about soldiers?
Shallow. The same Sir John, the very same: I saw him break Schoggan’s head at the court-gate, when he was a crack, not thus high; and the very same day did I fight with one Sampson Stockfish, a fruiterer, behind Gray’s-inn. O, the mad days that I have spent! and to see how many of mine old acquaintances are dead!
Silence. We shall all follow, cousin.
Shallow. Certain, ’tis certain, very sure, very sure: death (as the Psalmist saith) is certain to all, all shall die.—How a good yoke of bullocks at Stamford fair?
Silence. Truly cousin, I was not there.
Shallow. Death is certain. Is old Double of your town living yet?