Pist.

Save you, Sir John.

Fal.

Welcome, ancient Pistol. Here, Pistol, I charge you with a cup of sack, do you discharge upon mine hostess.

Pist.

I will discharge upon her, Sir John, with two bullets.

Fal.

She is Pistol-proof, Sir, you shall hardly offend her.

Host.

Come, I'll drink no proofs, nor no bullets; I will drink no more than will do me good, for no man's pleasure. I—

Pist.

Then to you, Mrs. Dorothy, I will charge you.

Dol.

Charge me! I scorn you, scurvy companion! what you poor, base, rascally, cheating, lack-linnen mate. Away, you mouldy rogue, away, I'm meat for your master.

Pist.

I know you, Mistress Dorothy.

Dol.

Away, you cut-purse rascal, you filthy bung, away. By this wine, I'll thrust my knife in your mouldy chaps, if you play the sawcy cuttle with me. Away, you bottle-ale rascal, you basket-hilt stale jugler. You.—Since when, I pray you, Sir?—^{8 note}

Pist.

I will murther your ruff for this.

Fal.

^{9 note}No more, Pistol; I wou'd not have you go off here. Discharge your self of our company, Pistol.

Host.

No, good captain Pistol; not here, sweet captain.

Dol.

Captain! thou abominable damn'd cheater, art thou not asham'd to be call'd captain? if Captains were of my mind, they would truncheon you out of taking their names upon you, before you have earn'd them. You a captain! you slave! for what? for tearing a poor whore's ruff in a bawdy-house?—he a captain! hang him, rogue, ^{1 note}he lives upon mouldy stew'd prunes and dry'd cakes. A captain! these villains will make the word captain as odious as the word occupy; which was an excellent good word, before it was ill sorted; therefore captains had need look to it.

Bard.

Pray thee, go down, good Antient.

Fal.

Hark thee hither, mistress Dol.

Pist.

Not I. I tell thee what, Corporal Bardolph,—I could tear her. I'll be reveng'd on her.

Page.

Pray thee, go down.

Pist.

I'll see her damn'd first: to Pluto's damned lake, to the infernal deep, where Erebus and tortures vile also. Hold hook and line, say I; down! down, dogs; down, fates; have we not Hiren here?

Host.

Good captain Peesel, be quiet, it is very late; I beseech you now, aggravate your choler.

Pist.
These be good humours, indeed. Shall pack-horses

And ^{2 note}hollow-pamper'd jades of Asia,
Which cannot go but thirty miles a day,
Compare with Cæsars, and with * ^noteCannibals,
And Trojan Greeks? nay, rather damn them with
King Cerberus, and let the welkin roar.
Shall we fall foul for toys?

Host.

By my troth, captain, these are very bitter words.

Bard.

Begone, good Ancient. This will grow to a brawl anon.

Pist.

Die men, like dogs; give crowns like pins; ^{3 note}
have we not Hiren here?

Host.
O' my word, captain, there's none such here.
What the good-jer? do you think, I would deny her?
I pray, be quiet.

Pist.

Then feed, and be fat, my fair Calipolis; come, give me some sack. ^{4 note}Si fortuna me tormenta, spero me contenta.

Fear we broad sides? no, let the fiend give fire:
Give me some sack; and, sweet-heart, lye thou there. [Laying down his sword.
^{5 note}Come we to full points here; and are & cætera's nothing?

Fal.

Pistol, I would be quiet.

Pist.

^{6 note}Sweet knight, I kiss thy neif. What! we have seen the seven stars.

Dol.

Thrust him down stairs, I cannot endure such a fustian rascal.

Pist.

Thrust him down stairs? know we not ^{7 note}galloway nags?

Fal.

Quoit him down, Bardolph, like a shove-groat shilling. Nay, if he do nothing but speak nothing, he shall be nothing here.

Bard.

Come, get you down stairs.

Pist.

What, shall we have incision! shall we imbrew? then Death

Host.

Here's goodly stuff toward.

Fal.

Give me my rapier, boy.

Dol.

I pr'ythee, Jack, I pr'ythee, do not draw.

Fal.

Get you down stairs.

Host.

Here's a goodly tumult; I'll forswear keeping house, before I'll be in these tirrits and frights. So; murther, I warrant now. Alas, alas, put up your naked weapons, put up your naked weapons.

Dol.

I pr'ythee, Jack, be quiet, the rascal is gone. Ah, you whorson, little valiant villain, you!

Host.

Are you not hurt i' th' groin? methought, he made a shrewd thrust at your belly.

Fal.

Have you turn'd him out of doors?

Bard.

Yes, Sir, the rascal's drunk. You have hurt him, Sir, in the shoulder.

Fal.

A rascal, to brave me!—

Dol.

Ah, you sweet little rogue, you. Alas, poor ape, how thou sweat'st? Come, let me wipe thy face— come on, you whorson chops—ah, rogue! I love thee, —thou art as valourous as Hector of Troy, worth five of Agamemnon; and ten times better than the nine Worthies. A villain!

Fal.

A rascally slave; I will toss the rogue in a blanket.

Dol.

Do, if thou dar'st for thy heart: if thou do'st, I'll canvass thee between a pair of sheets.

Page.

The musick is come, Sir.

Fal.

Let them play; play, Sirs. Sit on my knee, Dol. A rascal, bragging slave! the rogue fled from me like quick-silver.

Dol.

I'faith, and thou follow'd'st him like a church. Thou whorson little^{8 note} tydie Bartholomew Boar-pig, when wilt thou leave fighting on days, and foining on nights, and begin to patch up thine old body for heaven?

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