Fal.

Though I could scape shot-free at London, I fear the shot here: here's no scoring, but upon the pate. Soft, who art thou? Sir Walter Blunt? there's honour for you; here's no vanity: I am as hot as moulten lead, and as heavy too: heav'n keep lead out of me, I need no more weight than mine own bowels. I have led my rag-o-muffians where they are pepper'd; there's not three of my hundred and fifty left alive; and they are for the town's end, to beg during life. But who comes here?

P. Henry.
What, stand'st thou idle here? lend me thy sword,
Many a noble man lies stark and stiff
Under the hoofs of vaunting enemies,
Whose deaths are unreveng'd. Lend me thy sword.

Fal.

O Hal, I pr'ythee give me leave to breathe a while. Turk

Gregory never did such deeds in arms, as I have done this day. I have paid Percy, I have made him sure.

P. Henry.
He is indeed, and living to kill thee:
I pr'ythee lend me thy sword.

Fal.

Nay, Hal, if Percy be alive, thou get'st not my sword: but take my pistol if thou wilt.

P. Henry.

Give it me: what, is it in the case?

Fal.

Ay Hal, 'tis hot. There's that will sack a city.

P. Henry.

What, is it a time to jest and dally now?

Fal.

If Percy be alive, I'll pierce him; if he do come in my way, so; if he do not, if I come in his, willingly, let him make a carbonado of me. I like not such grinning honour as Sir Walter hath: give me life, which if I can save, so; if not, honour comes unlook'd for, and there's an end.