be also that
the young prince is not unfortunate in a companion who can find grace in
highwaymen: '... let us not that are squires of the night's body be
called thieves of the day's beauty: let us be Diana's foresters,
gentlemen of the shade, minions of the moon; and let men say, we be men
of good government, being governed as the sea is, by our noble and
chaste mistress the moon, under whose countenance we steal.' Falstaff is
big with the love of life and ever giving birth to it; he is the spirit
of the earth, a djinn released whom none may bottle. Because of this he
is lawless; he cannot respect the law, for he can respect no limits; he
bursts out from the small restrictions of man as does his mighty paunch
from his leather belt. It is hopeless to try to abash him; force even,
as embodied in the Chief Justice, does not awe him overmuch, so well
does he know that threats will not avail to impair his pleasure.
Falstaff in jail would make merry with the jailers, divert them with
quips, throw dice and drink endlessly the sack they would offer him for
love. He cannot be daunted, feeling too deeply that he holds the ball of
the world between his short arms; once only does Falstaff's big, gentle
heart contract, when young Hal takes ill his kindly cry: 'God save thee,
my sweet boy!' He is assured that he will be sent for in private, and it
is in genuine pain rather than fear he cries out: 'My lord, my lord!'
when committed to the Fleet.

In this simple faith lies much of Falstaff's gigantic quality. To
believe everything, to be gullible, in brief to be as nearly as may be
an instinctive animal, that is to be great. I would not have Falstaff
sceptical; he must be credulous, faithfully become the ambassador of
Ford to Ford's wife, and be deceived, and again deceived; he must
believe himself loved of all women, of Mistress Ford, or Mistress Page,
or Doll Tearsheet; he must readily be fooled, pinched, pricked, singed,
ridiculously arrayed in the clothes of Mother Prat. One moment of doubt,
a single inquiry, and the colossus would fall from his pedestal, become
as mortal and suspicious men. But there is no downfall; he believes and,
breasting through the sea of ridicule, he holds Mistress Ford in his
arms for one happy moment, the great moment which even a rain of
potatoes from the sky could not spoil. It could not, for there echoes
in Falstaff's mind the sweet tune of 'Green Sleeves':

'Greensleeves was all my joy,
Greensl