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Pist. Pish for thee, Iceland dog! thou prick-eared cur of Iceland !
Quick. Good corporal Nym, show the valour of a man, and put up thy sword. Nym. Will you shog off? I would have you solus.
[Sheathing his sword. Pist. Solus, egregious dog ? O viper vile! The solus in thy most marvellous 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! I do retort the solus in thy bowels : For I can take, and Pistol's cock is up, And flashing fire will follow.
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 braggard vile, and damned furious wight! The grave doth
gape, and doting death is near; Therefore exhale.
[Pistol and Nym draw. 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.
[Draws. Pist. An oath of mickle might; and fury shall abate. Give me thy first, thy fore-foot to me give; Thy spirits are most tall.
Nym. I will cut thy throat, one time or other, in fair lerms; that is the humour of it.
Pist. Coupe le gorge, that's the word ?—I thee defy
Enter the Boy. Boy. Mine host Pistol, you must come to my master,--and you, hostess ;-he is very sick, and would to bed. Good Bardolph, put thy nose between his sheets, and do the office of a warming-pan : 'faith, he's very ill.
Bard. Away, you rogue.
Quick. 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.
[Exeunt Mrs QUICKLY and Boy. 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.
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
Bard. Corporal Nym, an thou wilt be friends, be friends: an thou wilt not, why then be enemies with me too. Pr’ythee, put up.
Nym. I shall have my eight shillings, I won of you at betting?
Pist. A noble shalt thou have, and present pay;
Nym. I shall have my noble ?
Re-enter Mrs QUICKLY. Quick. As ever you came of women, come in quickly to sir John: Ah, 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 will live.
SCENE II.-Southampton.-- A Council Chamber.
Enter ExeTER, BEDFORD, and WESTMORELAND.
Bed. The king hath note of all that they intend, By interception which they dream not of.
Exe. Nay, but the man that was his bedfellow, Whom he hath cloy'd and grac'd with princely fa
vours, That he should, for a foreign purse, so sell His sovereign's life to death and treachery !
Trumpet sounds. Enter King HenrY, SCROOP, Cam
BRIDGE, GREY, Lords, and Attendants. K. Hen. Now sits the wind fair, and we will abroad. My lord of Cambridge,—and my kind lord of Masham,And you, my gentle knight, give me your thoughts: Think you not, that the powers we bear with us, Will cut their passage through the force of France; Doing the execution, and the act, For which we have in head assembled them?
Scroop. No doubt, my liege, if each man do his best. K. Hen. I doubt not that: since we are well per
suaded, We carry not a heart with us from hence,
not in a fair consent with ours; Nor leave not one behind, that doth not wish Success and conquest to attend on us.
Cam. Never was monarch better feared, and loved, Than is your majesty ; there's not, I think, a subject, That sits in heart-grief and uneasiness Under the sweet shade of your government.
Grey. Even those, that were your father's enemies,
Scroop. So service shall with steeled sinews toil;
K. Hen. We judge no less.—Uncle of Exeter,
Scroop. That's mercy, but too much security :
K. Hen. O, let us yet be merciful.
Grey. Sir, you show great mercy, if you give him life, After the taste of much correction.
K. Hen. Alas, your too much love and care of me Are heavy orisons 'gainst this poor wretch.