FALSTAFF
There are many wrinkles now in your dear face, my lady, the great eyes are a little dimmed, and the sweet laughter is a little cracked; but I am not sorry to have seen you thus. For I have loved no woman truly save you alone; and I am not sorry. Farewell. (He bends over and reverently kisses her fingers. Then she leaves as quietly as a cloud passes.)
FALSTAFF
(he goes back to the chair by the fire and sits at ease) Lord, Lord, how subject we old men are to the vice of lying.... Yet it was not all a lie;—but what a coil over a youthful greensickness ’twixt a lad and a wench more than forty years syne.... I might have had money of her for the asking, yet I am glad I did not; which is a parlous sign and smacks of dotage.... Were it not a quaint conceit, a merry tickle-brain of Fate that this mountain of malmsey were once a delicate stripling with apple cheeks and a clean breath, smelling of civit and as mad for love, I warrant you as any Amadis of them all? For, if a man were to speak truly, I did love her. I had special marks of the pestilence. Not all the flagons and apples in the universe might have comforted me; I was wont to sigh like a leaky bellows; to weep like a wench that is lost of her granddam; to lard my speech with the fagends of ballads like a man milliner; and did indeed indite sonnets, cazonets and what not of mine own elaboration.... And Moll did carry them, plump, brown-eyed Moll that hath married Hodge, the tanner and reared her tannikins and died long since.
Lord, Lord, what did I not write (He draws a paper from the packet and leaning over deciphers the faded writing by the fire light.)
Have pity, Sylvia! Cringing at thy door
Entreats with dolorous cry and clamoring
That mendicant who quits thee nevermore;
Now winter chills the world, and no birds sing
In any woods, yet as in wanton Spring