PRINCE.
Sirrah, you boy, and Bardolph, no word to your master that I am yet come to town. There’s for your silence.
BARDOLPH.
I have no tongue, sir.
PAGE.
And for mine, sir, I will govern it.
PRINCE.
Fare you well; go.
[Exeunt Bardolph and Page.]
This Doll Tearsheet should be some road.
POINS.
I warrant you, as common as the way between Saint Albans and London.
PRINCE.
How might we see Falstaff bestow himself tonight in his true colours, and not ourselves be seen?
POINS.
Put on two leathern jerkins and aprons, and wait upon him at his table as drawers.
PRINCE.
From a god to a bull? A heavy descension! It was Jove’s case. From a prince to a ’prentice? A low transformation that shall be mine, for in everything the purpose must weigh with the folly. Follow me, Ned.