Bard.

Here comes Ancient Pistol and his wife: good corporal, be patient here. How now, mine host Pistol!

Pist.
Base tike ^note, call'st thou me host?
Now, by this hand, I swear, I scorn the term;
Nor shall my Nell keep lodgers. ^note

Host.

No, by my troth, not long; for we cannot lodge and board a dozen or fourteen gentlewomen that live honestly by the prick of their needles, but it will be thought

we keep a bawdy house straight. [Nym and Pistol draw. ^note] O well a day, Lady ^note, if he be not drawn now! ^note we shall see wilful adultery and murder committed.

Bard. ^note

Good lieutenant! good corporal! offer nothing here.

Nym.

Pish! ^note

Pist.

Pish for thee, Iceland ^note dog! thou prick-ear'd cur of Iceland!

Host.

Good Corporal Nym, show thy valour ^note, and put up your sword.

Nym.
Will you shog off ^note? I would have you solus.

Pist.
‘Solus,’ egregious dog? O viper vile!
The ‘solus’ in thy most mervailous ^note 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 ^note mouth!
I do retort the ‘solus’ in thy bowels;
For I can take ^note, and Pistol's cock is up,
And flashing fire will follow ^note.

Nym.

I am not Barbason; you cannot conjure me. I have an humour to knock you indifferently well. If you grow foul with me, Pistol, I will scour you with my rapier, as I may, in fair terms: if you would walk off, I would prick your guts a little, in good terms, as I may: and that's the humour of it.

Pist.
O braggart vile and damned furious wight!

The grave doth gape, and doting ^note death is near; ^note
Therefore exhale.

Bard.

Hear me, hear me what I say: he that strikes the first stroke, I'll run him up to the hilts, as I am a soldier.

Pist.
An oath of mickle might; and fury shall abate.
Give me thy fist, thy fore-foot to me give:
Thy spirits are most ^note tall ^note.

Nym.

I will cut thy throat, one time or other, in fair terms: that is the humour of it.

Pist.
‘Couple a ^note gorge!’
That is the word. I thee defy ^note again.
O hound of Crete, think'st thou my spouse to get?
No; to the spital go,
And from the powdering-tub of infamy
Fetch forth the lazar kite of Cressid's kind,
Doll Tearsheet she by name, and her espouse:
I have, and I will hold, the quondam Quickly
For the only she; and—pauca, there's enough.
Go to ^note. ^note Enter the Boy.

Boy.

Mine host Pistol, you ^note must come to my master, and you, hostess: he is very sick, and would to bed. Good Bardolph, put thy face ^note between his sheets, and do the office of a warming-pan. Faith, he's very ill.

Bard.

Away, you rogue!

Host.

By my troth, he'll yield the crow a pudding one of these days. The king has killed his heart. Good husband, come home presently.

Bard.

Come, shall I make you two friends? We must to France together: why the devil should we keep knives to cut one another's throats?

Pist.

Let floods o'erswell, and fiends for food howl on!

Nym.

You'll pay me the eight shillings I won of you at betting?

Pist.

Base is the slave that pays.

Nym.
That now I will have: that's the humour of it.

Pist.
As manhood shall compound: push home. [They draw. ^note

Bard.
By this sword, he that makes the first thrust,
I'll kill him; by this sword, I will.

Pist.
Sword is an oath, and oaths must have their course.

Bard.

Corporal Nym, an ^note thou wilt be friends, be friends: an thou wilt not, why, then, be enemies with me too. Prithee, put up.

Nym. ^note

I shall have my eight shillings I won of you at betting?

Pist.
A noble shalt thou have, and present pay;
And liquor likewise will I give to thee,
And friendship shall combine, and ^note brotherhood:
I'll live by Nym, and Nym shall live by me;
Is not this just? for I shall sutler be
Unto the camp, and profits will accrue.
Give me thy hand. ^note

Nym.
I shall have my noble?

Pist.
In cash most justly paid.

Nym.
Well, then, that's ^note the humuor of't ^note. Re-enter ^note Hostess.

Host.

As ever you came ^note of women, come in quickly to

Sir John. Ah ^note, poor heart! he is so shaked of a burning quotidian tertian, that it is most lamentable to behold. Sweet men, come to him.

Nym.

The king hath run bad humours on the knight; that's the even of it.

Pist.
Nym, thou hast spoke the right;
His heart is fracted and corroborate.

Nym.

The king is a good king: but it must be as it may; he passes some humours and careers.

Pist.

Let us condole the knight; for, lambkins we ^note will live.