Shal.

Take me—take me this letter, I say, to Sir John Falstaff.—That is his suttling-house. I will maul his cloak-bag of chitterlings with my rapier, as I may.

Slen.

And will you fight him, cousin? Well, hang me if I carry the challenge. I never could abide the thoughts of cold iron. Even a key put down my back for a bloody nose, ugh—ugh—ugh, would always set me a shuddering.

Shal.

Don't tell me—if the law will not get me my money, I'll be reveng'd of him. The tun-bellied knave shall not make such a fool of me. I will have his blood or my money.

Slen.

His blood! O lud! O lud! Why, cousin Shallow, you are enough to—

Shal.

Carry me this letter, I say, to Sir John Falstaff. What is it to you? If I am kill'd, you are my heir, and come in for my land and beaves. So do as I bid you.

Slen.

Ecod, that's true. I did not think of that: if my cousin's kill'd, I come in for his estate. (Aside) Ay, ay, give it me, I'll carry him the challenge. Hey! here he comes, with his bottle-nos'd man, that pick'd my pocket.

Shal.

Ay, he would pass without seeing us.