_Shallow._ The same Sir John, the very same: I saw him break Schoggan’s head at the court-gate, when he was a crack, not thus high; and the very same day did I fight with one Sampson Stockfish, a fruiterer, behind Gray’s-inn. O, the mad days that I have spent! and to see how many of mine old acquaintances are dead! _Silence._ We shall all follow, cousin. _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._ Truly cousin, I was not there. _Shallow._ Death is certain. Is old Double of your town living yet? _Silence._ Dead, sir. _Shallow._ Dead! see, see! he drew a good bow; and dead? he shot a fine shoot. John of 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 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? * * * * * There is not anything more characteristic than this in all Shakespeare. A finer sermon on mortality was never preached. We see the frail condition of human life, and the weakness of the human understanding in Shallow’s reflections on it; who, while the past is sliding from beneath his feet, still clings to the present. The meanest circumstances are shown through an atmosphere of abstraction that dignifies them: their very insignificance makes them more affecting, for they instantly put a check on our aspiring thoughts, and remind us that, seen through that dim perspective, the difference between the great and little, the wise and foolish, is not much. ‘One touch of nature makes the whole world kin’: and old Double, though his exploits had been greater, could but have had his day. There is a pathetic _naïveté_ mixed up with Shallow’s commonplace reflections and impertinent digressions. The reader laughs (as well he may) in reading the passage, but he lays down the book to think. The wit, however diverting, is social and humane. But this is not the distinguishing characteristic of wit, which is generally provoked by folly, and spends its venom upon vice. The fault, then, of Shakespeare’s comic Muse is, in my opinion, that it is too good-natured and magnanimous. It mounts above its quarry. It is ‘apprehensive, quick, forgetive, full of nimble, fiery, and delectable shapes’: but it does not take the highest pleasure in making human nature look as mean, as ridiculous, and contemptible as possible. It is in this respect, chiefly, that it differs from the comedy of a later, and (what is called) a more refined period.” _FROM HENRY IV, PART I_ _Enter_ HENRY _Prince of Wales and_ SIR JOHN FALSTAFF. _Falstaff._ Now, Hal, what time of day is it, lad?