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 killed 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