Solus: A note on Ancient Pistol

What is going on here? From Shakespeare's Henry V:

etc.

The Folger edition exemplifies general editorial indifference to Pistol's diatribe. The endnote to "O viper vile!" reads, "Pistol's speech is characterized by scraps of poetry, archaic language, and echoes of ranting speeches (sometimes from other plays)." The editor's subtext seems to be: "This guy is really annoying, there is something that needs an explanation, but we just can't bring ourselves to do it." Pistol, it's worth mentioning up top, has a strong connection with Greece and Rome, via the braggart stock figure of the miles gloriosus or more generally the alazṓn.

Context: Nym and Pistol have cause to quarrel. Nym is asking to speak to Pistol solus, i.e. alone, i.e. to step outside for a fight (or even a dagger in the guts). It is interesting that solus is gendered, so Nym is clearly speaking to Pistol. Nym definitely wants a word with his ex's new husband Pistol, not with his ex Mistress Quickly herself.

The editorial consensus seems to be that glossing Pistol further would just encourage him. Actors, audiences, directors, dramaturges may all be baffled as to what this guy's on about. But that's OK, because quite likely his interlocutor Nym doesn't know either. Dramaturgically, the scene still works even if Pistol's speech is just noise, flashing fire from a muzzle which misses its mark. "You cannot conjure me": Nym's comeback seems to be, "I'm not some fiend you can control with words." So he could mean that Pistol's words are mere gibberish meant to sound magically frightening.

Those glosses I've found so far helpfully point out that Pistol takes 'solus' as an insult. Thanks everyone. But really, it feels like there's more to be said here. What is so special about this word solus?

If Pistol takes solus as an insult, what insult does he take it as? Would solus have been a pretentious word for Nym to have used, perhaps? Or could there be a play on 'soulless,' cohering with Nym's mention of conjuring a fiend? Or even better, a variant on Stolas, the demon prince (and Twitter bot)? Or is Pistol pretending to interpret Nym's words "I would have you solus" as "when I am solus, I would have you, that is to say, when I think about you I touch myself"? Might there be a link to 'Sol,' the sun, perhaps playing into that "flashing fire"? Or "solicit" meaning concerned, keen, careful, anxious, solicitious, as in "He was verie soliste and kairful for his people" (James Dalrymple translated Jhone Leslie in 1596)?

Is Pistol really misunderstanding or mishearing Nym, or pretending to? If he is pretending, are Nym and/or Quickly meant to be in on this pretence or not? 

If he's doing a bit, what is the bit?

Questions! There is apparently one sense of the homonym 'solace' to do with debt payment and corporal punishment, which is very intriguing. I haven't been able track down much about it. From Joseph Moxon's 1683 Mechanick exercises, or, The doctrine of handy-works : applied to the art of printing : the second volumne:

But it seems to be limited to printing houses, and connected with the sort of epic simile of the printing house as a chapel. See more about it here. On balance, I don't think it's relevant here.

Or perhaps there is nothing special about 'solus'! It's a standard bully move to pick something at random and hold it up for sneering inspection. So perhaps there is actually nothing odd about the word solus, but Pistol is messing with Nym, to make him feel like there is. That's a decent interpretation.

Unless ... could 'solus,' I wonder, be a play on 'solace', with its slightly larger contemporary sense of not only comfort but also pleasure, entertainment, delight, also with a theological and/or sexual energy? When Pistol says that he 'can take,' does he mean that he can 'take solace'?

A fifteenth century song about money:

In every place thou makeste solas,

Gret joye, sporte, and welfare;

If so, then could this be Pistol's conceit? "I will feed you your solus so hard it will end up in your ass, and then I will find solace [pleasure] in your ass with my dick?" I am not sure. I think it could well be.

'Solus,' egregious dog? O viper vile!
The 'solus' in thy most mervailous face;
The 'solus' in thy teeth, and in thy throat,
And in thy hateful lungs, yea, in thy maw, perdy,
And, which is worse, within thy nasty mouth!

Clearly part of Pistol's retort involves him stuffing this word back in Nym's face, feeding it to him till he digests it and perhaps even poops or pees it out. Cf. "gives me the lie in the throat / as deep as the lungs" in Hamlet and Touchstone going no further than the Lie Circumstantial in As You Like It. The conventional comparison of language to something edible was pretty well-established around this time, enough so that an audience could probably follow Shakespeare putting some kind of extra spin on it. Cf. e.g. Donne's 'Satire II':

But hee is worst, who (beggarly) doth chaw
Others wits fruits, and in his ravenous maw
Rankly digested, doth those things out-spue . . .
The meate was mine, th'excrement is his owne.

Is Pistol perhaps even tracing the alimentary canal as a hidden "viper vile" within Nym? Is there some sense of Pistol as a haruspex, poking about in Nym's entrails for omens? Is that what Nym picks up on in his demonology-themed comeback? Well, perhaps. But the key thing to recognise is the peristaltic quality of Pistol's speech: the word moves steadily downward, and the "nasty mouth" is far likelier the "mouth" in Nym's butt than the one in his face.

Then what? Might there even be a multilingual pun on solus and whole / hole? Perhaps that's a bit much? Solace can certainly be a euphemism for sex (or vice-versa). I'm not sure I can find Shakespeare clearly using it that way yet. However, cf. a Middle English Seven Sages of Rome:

Dame, sho said, bi Goddes grace,
Mi husband dose me solace.
Þharfore no better nede I can
Bot I most luf sum oÞer man.

And there are plenty of later examples too. And where has the 'solus/solace' ended up? Usually a word is thrown back in your face, or at most in your throat. But here:

I do retort 'solus' in thy bowels;
For I can take, and Pistol's cock is up,
And flashing fire will follow. 

Now, we could suppose that Pistol introduces something new with this play on his name (the cocked pistol / hard cock bit), rather than continuing a thought that began in the lines before. Take is obviously a hugely polysemous word, so there are plenty of options to play with. (And since Pistol is apparently engaging on wordplay on his own name, it might be worth mentioning that "nim" could mean "to take, to nick"). Just possibly, Pistol has abandoned his previous thread, and is simply saying: "I can take you [in a fight]," or "I can take [aim]," or "I can take [i.e. strike, hit]," and the innuendo of "cock is up" may not even be that important.

But I think we might want to take Pistol's "For" seriously: the fixation on 'solus' is flowing into some kind of climax. And I think we need to take the innuendo seriously too. Is the "flashing fire" not just a gunshot, but cum? I mean, yes, it is cum. It's not like this is his first time: "I will discharge upon her, Sir John, with two bullets" (Henry IV part 1). Where is this flashing fire headed? Mistress Quickly (which we can call the "no homo-Nym" interpretation, a cuckold-energy brag)? Or toward somebody else? Is it Nym himself, a sort of threat of sexual violence?

So then . . . is this the conceit? "I will feed you your solus so hard it will end up in your ass, and then I will take solace in your ass?" On balance, I think yes. The two sections of Pistol's speech are neither totally separate, nor a smooth progression. There's a kind of sonnety turn at "For," once the notional solus is safely lodged in the notional bowels. Pistol's witticism is that he will make Nym eat his words and then shoot him in the butt, but this is overtly blended with the promise that he will take solace in Nym's bowels. Flashing fire will follow.

Are we missing anything? Let's also quickly run through some of the other words. Perdy is an asservation (like "by God" or "for real" or "done know"). Maw is a funny word which probably means "stomach" but could also mean "throat" or "jaws" or even "appetite." Nasty probably connotes more "loathsome, dirty" than it does "cruel, vicious." So the "nasty mouth" is credibly read as butt-hole, given the apparent progression of the "solus" through the digestive tract. Mervailous isn't too different from its modern sense, with a bit more emphasis on "wondrous, strange, striking," and a bit less emphasis on "great, lovely, splendid." Retort is "throw back." Bowels could certainly mean specifically the intestines, but could also mean abdominal organs more generally, or the insides of the body. Barbason: I can't see much on this, but evidently he's some fancy fiend (see note).

So if this is indeed Pistol's conceit, it's gross and kind of stupid, but also kind of ingenious. Crucially, it's not mere noise: it's noise and signal, a decodeable bluster, an extended witticism, a cohesive rhetorical performance that feels like it's going nowhere yet knows where it's headed all along. Indeed, it could even be a little more layered. Conjure seems to be roughly "bind, constrain, control with magic words." But it is very flexible, and the common modern sense of "magically summon" was certainly in use in Shakespeare's time. I think this passage affords potential for genuine flirtation. Macho, deniable, deranged, extraordinarily flamboyant flirtation. You want me by myself? How dare you. You two used to sleep together, now we're sleeping together, and now you want me by myself? Oh my god, you big brute, how rude is that! The three of us should be together. I'm joking obviously. Am I? I'm joking. Am I? I conjure you, Nym ...

And it might just be one more clue to help with recovering a character that, I have a hunch, has drifted beyond the interpretative resources of most modern readers, audiences, actors, directors and dramaturgs. It strikes me that the attitude that "braggarts are just liars and cowards" -- which underlies modern interpretations of Pistol, or rather, modern lack of interest in the character -- does not really reflect Shakespeare's typically nuanced concern for the nuanced relationships of linguistic virtue and moral virtue, of seeming and being, of war and finance, and of agency and chivalry.

For example, we may read into Nym's comeback, "I am not Barbason, you cannot conjure me," a rejection of an offer of verbal conflict, in favour of a deferred material resolution: a punch-up, maybe with a stabbing on the side. But the rejection is an uneasy one, and not based on on a simplistic distinction of words and deeds or things, of verba and res. Rather, Nym seems to entertain different potential modes of materiality in which language may be enacted: there may well be tenuous beings for whom language becomes so substantial that it can engage like ectoplasm with their very flesh, the clockwork gears of rhetoric and hearts and legs and arms and daggers all elegantly meshing and turning, only Corporal Nym -- so he insists, using words to do so -- is not one of those beings. What about Ancient Pistol though? Is he a demon who, knowing his own name, can use it to conjure himself? Ancient Pistol: is there a bit more to him?

Well, that's the best I can do so far. This speech remains a little mysterious to me. I'd welcome any suggestions about any of this, or more generally about early modern braggarts and their precursors.

Here's another bit of Pistol:

Note: "Evidently a fiend." I haven't found Barbason anywhere else, except in Merry Wives of Windsor, in passing, and very definitely naming a fiend there. But cf. Reginald Scot's 1584 The Discovery of Witchcraft:

Marbas, alias Barbas is a great president, and appeareth in the form of a mightie Lyon: but at the commandement of a coniuror commeth up in the likenes of a man, and answereth fully as touching anie thing which is hidden or secret: he bringeth diseases and cureth them; he promoteth wisdom, and the knowledge of mechanicall arts, or handicrafts; he changeth men into other shapes, and under his presidency or governement are thirtie six legions or divels conteined.

And:

Barbatos, a great countie or earle, and also a duke, he appeareth in Signo sagittarii sylvestris, with foure kings, which bring companies and great troopes. He understandeth the singing of birds, the barking of dogs, the lowings of bullocks, and the voice of all living creatures. He detecteth treasures hidden by magicians and inchanters, and is of the order of vertues, which in part beare rule: he knoweth all things past, and to come, and reconcileth freends.

"Barbason" was quite possible a mis-remembering or deliberate adaptation of one of these. "Barbason" could have been in Shakespeare's head because it was in his Holinshed: Barbason was a French knight supposed to have fought personally with Henry V in a countermine. This can't be the person Nym's talking of, surely: the timeline is all wrong.

But why Barbas, Barbatos, Barbason? The thing is, with fiends, you have so many to choose from, you'd think you'd select one with some significance. But what? Barbason might suggest 'barbarian,' as a counterpoint with the Pistol's weird complicated Roman energy. Barbason and Barbas and Barbatos could all suggest 'beard' (cf. barbate, maybe a later term), which at least feels vaguely relevant in some kind of proto toxic masc way. Cf. these beards: Henry IV: "No man so potent breaths upon the ground, / But I will beard him"; Othello: ""Good sir, be a man; / Think, every bearded fellow, that's but yok'd, / May draw with you: there's millions now alive, / That nightly lie in those unproper beds; your case is better." To cut someone's beard could be to outwit them, so perhaps a beardy demon is appropriate way to decline an invitation to a battle of wits. And in Merry Wives of Windsor, Ford laments: "Terms, names! Amaimon sounds well; Lucifer, well; Barbason, well: yet they are devils' additions, the names of fiends. Yet cuckold?" And then in Henry IV part I, Falstaff talks of how the Prince of Wales "gave Amamon the bastinado and made Lucifer cuckold." So there is a kind of very tenuous association between Barbason and jealous and controlling husbands, but that association is entirely created within scenes written by Shakespeare himself, so far as I've found. Another possible association is Barbary, perhaps bringing connotations of racialised power. And gendered power: 'Barbary hen' is slang for sex worker, used in Henry IV part 1. But can "I'm not Barbason" really retain even a tincture of "I'm not your Barbary hen," outside of an exigetical trance? I doubt it. I think it's more likely there is some reference I'm missing.

Maybe Shakespeare knows about some demons we don't.

Just one final possibility to consider: could Nym's retort be based on the idea that Pistol has been addressing him as Solas? Could he be saying, "Look, I'm not some demon called Solas or Barbason or whatever, forcefully and bodily interpellated by my secret name"? Also from Scot's Discovery of Witchcraft:

Stolas is a great prince, appearing in the forme of a nightraven, before the exorcist, he taketh the image and shape of a man, and teacheth astronomie, absolutelie understanding the vertues of herbes and pretious stones; there are under him twentie six legions.

And: 

Saleos is a great earle, he appeareth as a gallant soldier, riding on a crocodile, and weareth a dukes crowne, peaceable, &c.

Note on Cymbeline

Quick note on a speech of Iachimo to Imogen (Innogen), which I think most editors have got wrong. Iachimo is trying to imply that Imogen's beloved Posthumus has been unfaithful to her.

What! are men mad? Hath nature given them eyes
To see this vaulted arch, and the rich crop
Of sea and land, which can distinguish 'twixt
The fiery orbs above, and the twinn'd stones
Upon the numbered beach, and can we not
Partition make with spectacles so precious
'Twixt foul, and fair?

"Twinn'd" might not mean what you think it is (more on that in a moment). There is also a textual crux to note: "th'unnumbered beach" or "the number'd" beach? (See Note 1).

A plausible enough reading would be something like, "Wow, how is it that certain men (not naming any names or anything) can distinguish really fine details, e.g. distinguish which star is which, or distinguish between two grains of sands that look identical from a distance ... and yet can fail to tell the difference between a foul woman and a fair one?"

Nosworthy's Arden Cymbeline seems a bit confused in this scene overall. Like most editors, Nosworth interprets "distinguish" as "distinguish orb from orb, and stone from stone." (See Note 2). The more recent Wayne Arden edition is way better and hugely useful, but it also goes with "the countless stones that the human eye can differentiate from one another." 

But there's another strong reading here. It's not altogether different: the two readings are as different as two grains of sand, maybe?

The bits with the crown

In The Famous Victories of Henry the Fifth (anonymous):

HENRY 5: Ah Harry, thrice unhappie, that hath neglect so
long from visiting of thy sicke father, I will goe. Nay but why
doo I not go to the Chamber of my sick father, to comfort the
melancholy soule of his bodie: his soule said I, here is his ...
bodie indeed, but his soule is whereas it needs no bodie.
Now thrice accursed Harry, that hath offended thy father so much,
and could not I craue pardon for all. Oh my dying father,
curst be the day wherin I was borne, and accursed be the
houre wherin I was begotten, but what shal I do? if weeping
teares which come too late, may suffice the negligence neglected
too soone, I wil weepe day and night until the
fountaine be drie with weeping. [Exit.]
[Enter Lord of Exeter and Oxford.]

EXETER: Come easily my Lord, for waking of the King.

HENRY 4: Now my Lords.

OXFORD: How doth your Grace feele your selfe?

HENRY 4: Somewhat better after my sleepe,
But good my Lords take off my Crowne,
Remoue my chaire a litle backe, and set me right.

BOTH: And please your grace, the crown is taken away.

HENRY 4: The Crowne taken away,
Good my Lord of Oxford, go see who hath done this deed:
No doubt tis some vilde traitor that hath done it,
To depriue my sonne, they that would do it now,
Would seeke to scrape and scrawle for it after my death.

[Enter Lord of Oxford with the Prince.]

OXFORD: Here and please your Grace ...
Is my Lord the yong Prince with the Crowne.

HENRY 4: Why how now my sonne?
I had thought the last time I had you in schooling,
I had giuen you a lesson for all,
And do you now begin againe?
Why tel me my sonne,
Doest thou thinke the time so long,
that thou wouldest haue it before the
Breath be out of my mouth?

HENRY 5: Most soueraign Lord, and welbeloued father, ...
I came into your Chamber to comfort the melancholy
Soule of your bodie, and finding you at that time
Past all recouerie, and dead to my thinking,
God is my witnesse, and what should I doo,
But with weeping tears lament the death of you my father,
And after that, seeing the Crowne, I tooke it:
And tel me my father, who might better take it then I,
After your death? but seeing you liue,
I most humbly render it into your Maiesties hands,
And the happiest man aliue, that my father liue: ...
And liue my Lord and Father, for euer.

HENRY 4: Stand vp my sonne,
Thine answere hath sounded wel in mine eares,
For I must need confesse that I was in a very sound sleep,
And altogither unmindful of thy comming:
But come neare my sonne,
And let me put thee in possession whilst I liue,
That none depriue thee of it after my death.

HENRY 5: Well may I take it at your maiesties hands,
But it shal neuer touch my head, so long as my father liues. ...

[He taketh the Crowne.]

HENRY 4: God giue thee ioy my sonne,
God blesse thee and make thee his seruant,
And send thee a prosperous raigne,
For God knowes my sonne, how hardly I came by it,
And how hardly I haue maintained it.

In King Henry IV Part 2 (by Shakespeare):

WARWICK. Will't please your Grace to go along with us?

  PRINCE. No; I will sit and watch here by the King.
                                       Exeunt all but the PRINCE
    Why doth the crown lie there upon his pillow,
    Being so troublesome a bedfellow?
    O polish'd perturbation! golden care!
    That keep'st the ports of slumber open wide
    To many a watchful night! Sleep with it now!
    Yet not so sound and half so deeply sweet
    As he whose brow with homely biggen bound
    Snores out the watch of night. O majesty!
    When thou dost pinch thy bearer, thou dost sit
    Like a rich armour worn in heat of day
    That scald'st with safety. By his gates of breath
    There lies a downy feather which stirs not.
    Did he suspire, that light and weightless down
    Perforce must move. My gracious lord! my father!
    This sleep is sound indeed; this is a sleep
    That from this golden rigol hath divorc'd
    So many English kings. Thy due from me
    Is tears and heavy sorrows of the blood
    Which nature, love, and filial tenderness,
    Shall, O dear father, pay thee plenteously.
    My due from thee is this imperial crown,
    Which, as immediate from thy place and blood,
    Derives itself to me. [Putting on the crown] Lo where it
sits --
    Which God shall guard; and put the world's whole strength
    Into one giant arm, it shall not force
    This lineal honour from me. This from thee
    Will I to mine leave as 'tis left to me. Exit

  KING. Warwick! Gloucester! Clarence!

Re-enter WARWICK, GLOUCESTER, CLARENCE

  CLARENCE. Doth the King call?

  WARWICK. What would your Majesty? How fares your Grace?

  KING. Why did you leave me here alone, my lords?

  CLARENCE. We left the Prince my brother here, my liege,
    Who undertook to sit and watch by you.

  KING. The Prince of Wales! Where is he? Let me see him.
    He is not here.

  WARWICK. This door is open; he is gone this way.

  PRINCE HUMPHREY. He came not through the chamber where we
stay'd.

  KING. Where is the crown? Who took it from my pillow?

  WARWICK. When we withdrew, my liege, we left it here.

  KING. The Prince hath ta'en it hence. Go, seek him out.
    Is he so hasty that he doth suppose
    My sleep my death?
    Find him, my lord of Warwick; chide him hither.
                                                    Exit WARWICK
    This part of his conjoins with my disease

    And helps to end me. See, sons, what things you are!
    How quickly nature falls into revolt
    When gold becomes her object!
    For this the foolish over-careful fathers
    Have broke their sleep with thoughts,
    Their brains with care, their bones with industry;
    For this they have engrossed and pil'd up
    The cank'red heaps of strange-achieved gold;
    For this they have been thoughtful to invest
    Their sons with arts and martial exercises;
    When, like the bee, tolling from every flower
    The virtuous sweets,
    Our thighs with wax, our mouths with honey pack'd,
    We bring it to the hive, and, like the bees,
    Are murd'red for our pains. This bitter taste
    Yields his engrossments to the ending father.

Re-enter WARWICK

    Now where is he that will not stay so long
    Till his friend sickness hath determin'd me?

  WARWICK. My lord, I found the Prince in the next room,
    Washing with kindly tears his gentle cheeks,
    With such a deep demeanour in great sorrow,
    That tyranny, which never quaff'd but blood,
    Would, by beholding him, have wash'd his knife
    With gentle eye-drops. He is coming hither.

  KING. But wherefore did he take away the crown?

Re-enter PRINCE HENRY

    Lo where he comes. Come hither to me, Harry.
    Depart the chamber, leave us here alone.
                          Exeunt all but the KING and the PRINCE

  PRINCE. I never thought to hear you speak again.

  KING. Thy wish was father, Harry, to that thought.
    I stay too long by thee, I weary thee.
    Dost thou so hunger for mine empty chair
    That thou wilt needs invest thee with my honours
    Before thy hour be ripe? O foolish youth!
    Thou seek'st the greatness that will overwhelm thee.
    Stay but a little, for my cloud of dignity
    Is held from falling with so weak a wind
    That it will quickly drop; my day is dim.
    Thou hast stol'n that which, after some few hours,
    Were thine without offense; and at my death
    Thou hast seal'd up my expectation.
    Thy life did manifest thou lov'dst me not,
    And thou wilt have me die assur'd of it.
    Thou hid'st a thousand daggers in thy thoughts,
    Which thou hast whetted on thy stony heart,
    To stab at half an hour of my life.
    What, canst thou not forbear me half an hour?
    Then get thee gone, and dig my grave thyself;
    And bid the merry bells ring to thine ear
    That thou art crowned, not that I am dead.
    Let all the tears that should bedew my hearse
    Be drops of balm to sanctify thy head;
    Only compound me with forgotten dust;
    Give that which gave thee life unto the worms.
    Pluck down my officers, break my decrees;
    For now a time is come to mock at form --
    Harry the Fifth is crown'd. Up, vanity:
    Down, royal state. All you sage counsellors, hence.
    And to the English court assemble now,
    From every region, apes of idleness.
    Now, neighbour confines, purge you of your scum.
    Have you a ruffian that will swear, drink, dance,
    Revel the night, rob, murder, and commit
    The oldest sins the newest kind of ways?
    Be happy, he will trouble you no more.
    England shall double gild his treble guilt;
    England shall give him office, honour, might;
    For the fifth Harry from curb'd license plucks
    The muzzle of restraint, and the wild dog
    Shall flesh his tooth on every innocent.
    O my poor kingdom, sick with civil blows!
    When that my care could not withhold thy riots,
    What wilt thou do when riot is thy care?
    O, thou wilt be a wilderness again.
    Peopled with wolves, thy old inhabitants!

  PRINCE. O, pardon me, my liege! But for my tears,
    The moist impediments unto my speech,
    I had forestall'd this dear and deep rebuke
    Ere you with grief had spoke and I had heard
    The course of it so far. There is your crown,
    And he that wears the crown immortally
    Long guard it yours! [Kneeling] If I affect it more
    Than as your honour and as your renown,
    Let me no more from this obedience rise,
    Which my most inward true and duteous spirit
    Teacheth this prostrate and exterior bending!
    God witness with me, when I here came in
    And found no course of breath within your Majesty,
    How cold it struck my heart! If I do feign,
    O, let me in my present wildness die,
    And never live to show th' incredulous world
    The noble change that I have purposed!
    Coming to look on you, thinking you dead—
    And dead almost, my liege, to think you were—
    I spake unto this crown as having sense,
    And thus upbraided it: 'The care on thee depending
    Hath fed upon the body of my father;
    Therefore thou best of gold art worst of gold.
    Other, less fine in carat, is more precious,
    Preserving life in med'cine potable;
    But thou, most fine, most honour'd, most renown'd,
    Hast eat thy bearer up.' Thus, my most royal liege,
    Accusing it, I put it on my head,
    To try with it—as with an enemy
    That had before my face murd'red my father—
    The quarrel of a true inheritor.
    But if it did infect my blood with joy,
    Or swell my thoughts to any strain of pride;
    If any rebel or vain spirit of mine
    Did with the least affection of a welcome
    Give entertainment to the might of it,
    Let God for ever keep it from my head,
    And make me as the poorest vassal is,
    That doth with awe and terror kneel to it!

  KING. O my son,
    God put it in thy mind to take it hence,
    That thou mightst win the more thy father's love,
    Pleading so wisely in excuse of it!
    Come hither, Harry; sit thou by my bed,
    And hear, I think, the very latest counsel
    That ever I shall breathe. God knows, my son,
    By what by-paths and indirect crook'd ways
    I met this crown; and I myself know well
    How troublesome it sat upon my head:
    To thee it shall descend with better quiet,
    Better opinion, better confirmation;
    For all the soil of the achievement goes
    With me into the earth. It seem'd in me
    But as an honour snatch'd with boist'rous hand;
    And I had many living to upbraid
    My gain of it by their assistances;
    Which daily grew to quarrel and to bloodshed,
    Wounding supposed peace. All these bold fears
    Thou seest with peril I have answered;
    For all my reign hath been but as a scene
    Acting that argument. And now my death
    Changes the mood; for what in me was purchas'd
    Falls upon thee in a more fairer sort;
    So thou the garland wear'st successively.
    Yet, though thou stand'st more sure than I could do,
    Thou art not firm enough, since griefs are green;
    And all my friends, which thou must make thy friends,
    Have but their stings and teeth newly ta'en out;
    By whose fell working I was first advanc'd,
    And by whose power I well might lodge a fear
    To be again displac'd; which to avoid,
    I cut them off; and had a purpose now
    To lead out many to the Holy Land,
    Lest rest and lying still might make them look
    Too near unto my state. Therefore, my Harry,
    Be it thy course to busy giddy minds
    With foreign quarrels, that action, hence borne out,
    May waste the memory of the former days.
    More would I, but my lungs are wasted so
    That strength of speech is utterly denied me.
    How I came by the crown, O God, forgive;
    And grant it may with thee in true peace live!

  PRINCE. My gracious liege,
    You won it, wore it, kept it, gave it me;
    Then plain and right must my possession be;
    Which I with more than with a common pain
    'Gainst all the world will rightfully maintain.

There's actually a three-way comparison available here, if we also include Hal's speech over the sleeping King, compared with how he recounts the incident later. Without necessarily doubting the sincerity of Hal's general gist (he loves his dad, he doesn't want him to die, he's going to mend his ways etc. etc.), we can clearly tell that his recollection embellishes, conceals, and transforms. Hal is not performing his socks off in hope of a moment of cognitive and affective sharing. He's doing something he learned from the best, from Sir John Falstaff: he's coming up with a cover story. The length of the King's lament -- and the kinds of excuses it implicitly pre-empts -- gives the actor playing Hal plenty of tense silence in which to be furiously devising.

(In a similar vein, Falstaff's companions seem to delight in nudging Falstaff into tight corners: Let's see him talk his way out of THIS one. The otherwise ponderous objections his companions tend to raise to Falstaff's excuses confirm this is what's going on: they like to play it straight, and push Falstaff to extremes of brazen and nimble wit).

In view of the theme of debt and indebtedness that runs so prominently throughout Part One and is still doing interesting things in Part Two, it is interesting that what Hal elides is who owes what to whom:

[...] My gracious lord! my father!
    This sleep is sound indeed; this is a sleep
    That from this golden rigol hath divorc'd
    So many English kings. Thy due from me
    Is tears and heavy sorrows of the blood
    Which nature, love, and filial tenderness,
    Shall, O dear father, pay thee plenteously.