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.
By my troth, I was not there.
SHALLOW.
Death is certain. Is old Double of your town living yet?
SILENCE.
Dead, sir.
SHALLOW.
Jesu, Jesu, dead! He drew a good bow, and dead! He shot a fine shoot. John a Gaunt loved him well, and betted much money on his head. Dead! He would have clapped i’ th’ clout at twelve score, and carried you a forehand shaft a fourteen and fourteen and a half, that it would have done a man’s heart good to see. How a score of ewes now?
SILENCE.
Thereafter as they be; a score of good ewes may be worth ten pounds.
SHALLOW.
And is old Double dead?
SILENCE.
Here come two of Sir John Falstaff’s men, as I think.
Enter Bardolph and one with him.
SHALLOW.
Good morrow, honest gentlemen.