PRINCE.
Nay, they will be kin to us, or they will fetch it from Japhet. But to the letter: “Sir John Falstaff, knight, to the son of the King, nearest his father, Harry Prince of Wales, greeting.”
POINS.
Why, this is a certificate.
PRINCE.
Peace! “I will imitate the honourable Romans in brevity.”
POINS.
He sure means brevity in breath, short-winded.
PRINCE.
“I commend me to thee, I commend thee, and I leave thee. Be not too familiar with Poins, for he misuses thy favours so much that he swears thou art to marry his sister Nell. Repent at idle times as thou mayst, and so, farewell.
Thine by yea and no, which is as much as to say, as thou usest him—Jack Falstaff with my familiars, John with my brothers and sisters, and Sir John with all Europe.”
POINS.
My lord, I’ll steep this letter in sack and make him eat it.
PRINCE.
That’s to make him eat twenty of his words. But do you use me thus, Ned? Must I marry your sister?
POINS.
God send the wench no worse fortune! But I never said so.
PRINCE.
Well, thus we play the fools with the time, and the spirits of the wise sit in the clouds and mock us. Is your master here in London?
BARDOLPH.
Yea, my lord.