inimitable and affecting, though most absurd and ludicrous dialogue, between Shallow and Silence, on the death of old Double. ‘_Shallow._ Come on, come on, come on; give me your hand, Sir; give me your hand, Sir; an early stirrer, by the rood. And how doth my good cousin Silence? _Silence._ Good morrow, good cousin Shallow. _Shallow._ And how doth my cousin, your bedfellow? and your fairest daughter, and mine, my god-daughter Ellen? _Silence._ Alas, a black ouzel, cousin Shallow. _Shallow._ By yea and nay, Sir; I dare say, my cousin William is become a good scholar: he is at Oxford still, is he not? _Silence._ Indeed, Sir, to my cost. _Shallow._ He must then to the Inns of Court shortly. I was once of Clement’s-Inn; where, I think, they will talk of mad Shallow yet. _Silence._ You were called lusty Shallow then, cousin. _Shallow._ I was called any thing, and I would have done any thing indeed, and roundly too. There was I, and little John Doit of Staffordshire, and black George Bare, and Francis Pickbone, and Will Squele a Cotswold man, you had not four such swinge-bucklers in all the Inns of Court again; and, I may say to you, we knew where the bona-robas were, and had the best of them all at commandment. Then was Jack Falstaff (now Sir John, a boy,) and page to Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk. _Silence._ This Sir John, cousin, that comes hither anon about soldiers? _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 acquaintance 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 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?’