Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Henry IV, Part I
1.2.209-212 (Prince Hal):
If all the year were playing holidays,1.3.260 (Hotspur):
To sport would be as tedious as to work;
But when they seldom come, they wished-for come,
And nothing pleaseth but rare accidents.
...this prince of smiles...1.3.247-248 (Earl of Worcester to Hotspur, a useful retort at family gatherings):
Farewell, kinsman. I will talk to you2.2.24-26 (Falstaff):
When you are better tempered to attend.
Eight yards of uneven ground is threescore and ten miles afoot with me...2.3.6-10 (Hotspur):
"The purpose you undertake is dangerous"Why, that's certain! 'Tis dangerous to take a cold, to sleep, to drink; but I tell you, my lord fool, out of this nettle, danger, we pluck this flower, safety.2.4.129-131 (Falstaff):
If manhood, good manhood, be not forgot upon the face of the earth, then am I a shotten herring.2.4.133 (Falstaff):
A bad world, I say.2.4.239-244 (Falstaff):
What, upon compulsion? Zounds, an I were at the strappado or all the racks in the world, I would not tell you on compulsion. Give you a reason on compulsion? If reasons were as plentiful as blackberries, I would give no man a reason upon compulsion, I.2.4.330-332 (Prince Hal to Falstaff):
Here comes lean Jack; here comes bare-bone. How now, my sweet creature of bombast? How long is't ago, Jack, since thou sawest thine own knee?2.4.407-411 (Falstaff masquerading as Henry IV to Prince Hal, add to collection about children resembling fathers):
That thou art my son I have partly thy mother's word, partly my own opinion, but chiefly a villainous trick of thine eye and a foolish hanging of thy nether lip that doth warrant me.2.4.453-465 (Prince Hal masquerading as Henry IV to Falstaff masquerading as Prince Hal):
There is a devil haunts thee in the likeness of an old fat man; a tun of man is thy companion. Why dost thou converse with that trunk of humours, that bolting hutch of beastliness, that swoll'n parcel of dropsies, that huge bombard of sack, that stuff'd cloakbag of guts, that roasted Manningtree ox with the pudding in his belly, that reverend Vice, that grey Iniquity, that father Ruffian, that Vanity in years? Wherein is he good, but to taste sack and drink it? wherein neat and cleanly, but to carve a capon and eat it? wherein cunning, but in craft? wherein crafty, but in villainy? wherein villainous, but in all things? wherein worthy, but in nothing?2.4.475-476 (Falstaff masquerading as Prince Hal to Prince Hal masquerading as Henry IV):
If sack and sugar be a fault, God help the wicked!3.1.57-59 (Glendower and Hotspur):
Glen. I can call spirits from the vasty deep.3.1.139-145 (Hotspur):
Hot. Why, so can I, or so can any man;
But will they come when you do call for them?
I had rather be a kitten and cry mew3.1.165 (Hotspur):
Than one of these same metre ballet-mongers.
I had rather hear a brazen canstick turned
Or a dry wheel grate on the axletree,
And that would set my teeth nothing on edge,
Nothing so much as mincing poetry.
...such a deal of skimble-skamble stuff...3.1.171-176 (Hotspur, about Glendower):
O, he is as tedious3.2.17 (Prince Hal):
As a tired horse, a railing wife;
Worse than a smoky house. I had rather live
With cheese and garlic in a windmill far
Than feed on cates and have him talk to me
In any summer house in Christendom.
...base newsmongers...3.3.2-4 (Falstaff, to be said when hungry):
Do I not bate? Do I not dwindle? Why, my skin hangs about me like an old lady's loose gown! I am withered like an old applejohn.4.2.64 (Prince Hal):
I did never see such pitiful rascals.4.3.59-60 (Hotspur):
The King is kind; and well we know the King5.1.75-83 (Henry IV):
Knows at what time to promise, when to pay.
...To face the garment of rebellion5.1.133-143 (Falstaff):
With some fine colour that may please the eye
Of fickle changelings and poor discontents,
Which gape and rub the elbow at the news
Of hurlyburly innovation.
And never yet did insurrection want
Such water colours to impaint his cause,
Nor moody beggars, starving for a time
Of pell-mell havoc and confusion.
How then? Can honour set to a leg? No. Or an arm? No. Or take away the grief of a wound? No. Honour hath no skill in surgery then? No. What is honour? A word. What is that word honour? Air. A trim reckoning! Who hath it? He that died a Wednesday. Doth he feel it? No. Doth he bear it? No. 'Tis insensible then? Yea, to the dead. But will it not live with the living? No. Why? Detraction will not suffer it. Therefore I'll none of it. Honour is a mere scutcheonand so ends my catechism.5.2.85-88 (Hotspur):
O gentlemen, the time of life is short!
To spend that shortness basely were too long
If life did ride upon a dial's point,
Still ending at the arrival of an hour.