straight. [Nym and Pistol draw.] O well a day, Lady, if he be not drawn now! We shall see wilful adultery and murder committed.
BARDOLPH.
Good Lieutenant! good corporal! offer nothing here.
NYM.
Pish!
PISTOL.
Pish for thee, Iceland dog! thou prickear’d cur of Iceland!
HOSTESS.
Good Corporal Nym, show thy valour, and put up your sword.
NYM.
Will you shog off? I would have you solus.
PISTOL.
“Solus,” egregious dog! O viper vile!
The “solus” in thy most mervailous 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.
PISTOL.
O braggart vile and damned furious wight!
The grave doth gape, and doting death is near,
Therefore exhale.
BARDOLPH. 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.]
PISTOL.
An oath of mickle might; and fury shall abate.
Give me thy fist, thy fore-foot to me give.
Thy spirits are most tall.
NYM. I will cut thy throat, one time or other, in fair terms: that is the humour of it.
PISTOL.
“Couple a gorge!”
That is the word. I thee defy 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.
[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 face between his sheets, and do the office of a warming-pan. Faith, he’s very ill.
BARDOLPH.
Away, you rogue!
HOSTESS.
By my troth, he’ll yield the crow a pudding one of these days.
The King has kill’d his heart.
Good husband, come home presently.
[Exeunt Hostess and Boy.]
BARDOLPH. 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?
PISTOL.
Let floods o’erswell, and fiends for food howl on!
NYM.
You’ll pay me the eight shillings I won of you at betting?
PISTOL.
Base is the slave that pays.
NYM.
That now I will have: that’s the humour of it.
PISTOL.
As manhood shall compound. Push home.
[They draw.]
BARDOLPH. By this sword, he that makes the first thrust, I’ll kill him; by this sword, I will.
PISTOL.
Sword is an oath, and oaths must have their course.
BARDOLPH. Corporal Nym, and thou wilt be friends, be friends; an thou wilt not, why, then, be enemies with me too. Prithee, put up.
NYM.
I shall have my eight shillings I won from you at betting?
PISTOL.
A noble shalt thou have, and present pay;
And liquor likewise will I give to thee,
And friendship shall combine, and 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.
NYM.
I shall have my noble?
PISTOL.
In cash most justly paid.
NYM.
Well, then, that’s the humour of’t.
[Re-enter Hostess.]
HOSTESS.
As ever you come of women, come in quickly to Sir John.
Ah, poor heart! he is so shak’d 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.
PISTOL.
