Shal. By the mass, you'll crack a quart together, ah! will you not, Master Bardolph ? Bard. Yea, sir, in a pottle-pot. Shal. By God's liggens, I thank thee:-the knave will stick by thee, I can assure thee that : 'a will not out; he is true bred. Bard. And I'll stick by him, sir. Shal. Why, there spoke a king. Lack nothing: be merry. [Knocking heard.] Look, who's at door there, ho! Who knocks? [Exit DAVY. Fal. [To SILENCE, who drinks a bumper.] Why, now you have done me right. Sil. [Singing.] Do me right, Is 't not so? Fal. 'T is so. And dub me knight, Samingo. Sil. Is 't so? Why, then say, an old man can do somewhat. Re-enter DAVY. Davy. If it please your worship, there's one Pistol come from the court with news. Fal. From the court! let him come in. Pist. Sir John, God save you ! Fal. What wind blew you hither, Pistol? Pist. Not the ill wind which blows no man to good.- Sweet knight, thou art now one of the greatest men in the realm. Sil. By 'r lady, I think he be, but goodman Puff of Barson. Pist. Puff! Puff in thy teeth, most recreant coward base !— Fal. I pr'ythee now, deliver them like a man of this world. Pist. A foutra for the world, and worldlings base! speak of Africa, and golden joys. Fal. O base Assyrian knight, what is thy news? Let King Cophetua know the truth thereof. Sil. [Sings.] And Robin Hood, Scarlet, and John. Pist. Shall Dunghill curs confront the Helicons? And shall good news be baffled? Then, Pistol, lay thy head in Furies' lap. Shal. Honest gentleman, I know not your breeding. Pist. Why then, lament therefore. Shal. Give me pardon, sir :-if, sir, you come with news from the court, I take it, there's but two ways: either to utter them, or to conceal them. I am, sir, under the king, in some authority. Pist. Under which king, bezonian? speak, or die. Shal. Under King Harry. Pist. Harry the Fourth? or Fifth? Shal. Harry the Fourth. Pist. A foutra for thine office ! Sir John, thy tender lambkin now is king; Harry the Fifth 's the man. I speak the truth : When Pistol lies, do this; and fig me, like The bragging Spaniard. Fal. What is the old king dead? Pist. As nail in door: the things I speak are just. Fal. Away, Bardolph! saddle my horse.Master Robert Shallow, choose what office thou wilt in the land, 't is thine.—Pistol, I will doublecharge thee with dignities. Bard. O joyful day!-I would not take a knighthood for my fortune. Pist. What! I do bring good news? Fal. Carry Master Silence to bed.-Master Shallow, my Lord Shallow, be what thou wilt; I am Fortune's steward. Get on thy boots: we'll ride all night.-O sweet Pistol -Away, Bardolph. [Exit BARDOLPH.]-Come, Pistol, utter more to me; and, withal, devise something to do thyself good.-Boot, boot, Master Shallow: I know the young king is sick for me. Let us take any man's horses; the laws of England are at my command. ment. Happy are they which have been my friends; and woe to my lord chief justice! Pist. Let vultures vile seize on his lungs also! 'Where is the life that late I led?' say they ; Why, here it is;-welcome this pleasant day! [Exeunt. SCENE IV.-London. A Street. Enter Beadles, dragging in Hostess QUICKLY and DOLL TEAR-SHEET. Host. No, thou arrant knave; I would to God I might die, that I might have thee hanged: thou hast drawn my shoulder out of joint. 1 Bead. The constables have delivered her over to me, and she shall have whipping-cheer enough, I warrant her. There hath been a man or two lately killed about her. Come on; Doll. Nuthook, nuthook, you lie ! I'll tell thee what, thou damned tripe-visaged rascal. An the child I now go with do miscarry, thou hadst better thou hadst struck thy mother, thou paper-faced villain. Host. O the Lord, that Sir John were come! he would make this a bloody day to somebody. But I pray God the fruit of her womb miscarry! Come, 1 Bead. If it do, you shall have a dozen of cushions again; you have but eleven now. I charge you both go with me; for the man is dead that you and Pistol beat among you. Doll. I'll tell thee what, thou thin man in a censer, I will have you as soundly swinged for this, you blue-bottle rogue! you filthy famished correctioner! if you be not swinged, I'll forswear half-kirtles. 1 Bead. Come, come, you she knight-errant, come. Host. O God, that right should thus overcome might! Well, of sufferance comes ease. Doll. Come, you rogue, come; bring me to a justice. Host. Ay; come, you starved blood-hound. |