No More Learning

Stand aside, nobility.
Host. O Jesu, this is excellent sport, i' faith!
Fal. Weep not, sweet queen, for trickling tears are vain.
Host. O, the Father, how he holds his countenance!
Fal. For God's sake, lords, convey my tristful queen!
For tears do stop the floodgates of her eyes.
Host. O Jesu, he doth it as like one of these harlotry players as
ever I see!
Fal. Peace, good pintpot. Peace, good tickle-brain.
- Harry, I do
not only marvel where thou spendest thy time, but also how thou
art accompanied. For though the camomile, the more it is trodden
on, the faster it grows, yet youth, the more it is wasted, the
sooner it wears. That thou art my son I have partly thy mother's
word, partly my own opinion, but chiefly a villanous trick of
thine eye and a foolish hanging of thy nether lip that doth
warrant me. If then thou be son to me, here lies the point: why,
being son to me, art thou so pointed at? Shall the blessed sun of
heaven prove a micher and eat blackberries? A question not to be
ask'd. Shall the son of England prove a thief and take purses? A
question to be ask'd. There is a thing, Harry, which thou hast
often heard of, and it is known to many in our land by the name
of pitch. This pitch, as ancient writers do report, doth defile;
so doth the company thou keepest. For, Harry, now I do not speak
to thee in drink, but in tears; not in pleasure, but in passion;
not in words only, but in woes also: and yet there is a virtuous
man whom I have often noted in thy company, but I know not his
name.
Prince. What manner of man, an it like your Majesty?
Fal. A goodly portly man, i' faith, and a corpulent; of a cheerful
look, a pleasing eye, and a most noble carriage; and, as I think,
his age some fifty, or, by'r Lady, inclining to threescore; and
now I remember me, his name is Falstaff. If that man should be
lewdly, given, he deceiveth me; for, Harry, I see virtue in his
looks.