DOLL TEARSHEET So you do, hostess.

MISTRESS QUICKLY Do I? Yea, in very truth do I, an ’twere an aspen leaf. I cannot abide swaggerers.

Enter Pistol, Bardolph, and the Page

PISTOL God save you, Sir John.

SIR JOHN Welcome, Ensign Pistol. Here, Pistol, I charge you with a cup of sack. Do you discharge upon mine hostess.

PISTOL I will discharge upon her, Sir John, with two bullets.

SIR JOHN She is pistol-proof, sir, you shall not hardly offend her.

MISTRESS QUICKLY Come, I’ll drink no proofs, nor no bullets. I’ll drink no more than will do me good, for no man’s pleasure, I.

PISTOL Then to you, Mistress Dorothy! I will charge you.

DOLL TEARSHEET Charge me? I scorn you, scurvy companion. What, you poor, base, rascally, cheating, lack-linen mate! Away, you mouldy rogue, away! I am meat for your master.

PISTOL I know you, Mistress Dorothy.

DOLL TEARSHEET Away, you cutpurse rascal, you filthy bung, away! By this wine, I’ll thrust my knife in your mouldy chaps an you play the saucy cuttle with me!

⌈She brandishes a knife⌉

Away, you bottle-ale rascal, you basket-hilt stale juggler, you!

⌈Pistol draws his sword⌉

Since when, I pray you, sir? God’s light, with two points on your shoulder! Much!

PISTOL God let me not live, but I will murder your ruff for this.

MISTRESS QUICKLY No, good Captain Pistol; not here, sweet captain.

DOLL TEARSHEET Captain? Thou abominable damned cheater, art thou not ashamed to be called ‘captain’? An captains were of my mind, they would truncheon you out, for taking their names upon you before you have earned them. You a captain? You slavel For what? For tearing a poor whore’s ruff in a bawdy-house! He a captain? Hang him, rogue, he lives upon mouldy stewed prunes and dried cakes. A captain? God’s light, these villains will make the word ’captain’ odious; therefore captains had need look to’t.

BARDOLPH Pray thee, go down, good ensign.

SIR JOHN Hark thee hither, Mistress Doll.

He takes her aside

PISTOL Not II I tell thee what, Corporal Bardolph, I could tear her! I’ll be revenged of her.

PAGE Pray thee, go down.

PISTOL I’ll see her damned first

To Pluto’s damned lake, by this hand,

To th’infernal deep,

Where Erebus, and tortures vile also.

‘Hold hook and line!’ say I.

Down, down, dogs; down, Fates.

Have we not Hiren here?

MISTRESS QUICKLY Good Captain Pizzle, be quiet. ‘Tis very late, i’faith. I beseek you now, aggravate your choler.

PISTOL These be good humours indeed!

Shall pack-horses

And hollow pampered jades of Asia,

Which cannot go but thirty mile a day,

Compare with Caesars and with cannibals,

And Trojan Greeks?

Nay, rather damn them with King Cerberus,

And let the welkin roar. Shall we fall foul for toys?

MISTRESS QUICKLY By my troth, captain, these are very bitter words.

BARDOLPH Be gone, good ensign; this will grow to a brawl anon.

PISTOL

Die men like dogs! Give crowns like pins!

Have we not Hiren here?

MISTRESS QUICKLY O’ my word, captain, there’s none such here. What the goodyear, do you think I would deny her? For God’s sake, be quiet.

PISTOL

Then feed and be fat, my fair Calipolis.

Come, give’s some sack.

Si fortune me tormente, sperato me contento.

Fear we broadsides? No; let the fiend give fire!

Give me some sack; and, sweetheart, lie thou there.

⌈He lays down his sword⌉

Come we to full points here? And are etceteras nothings?

⌈He drinks⌉

SIR JOHN Pistol, I would be quiet.

PISTOL Sweet knight, I kiss thy neaf. What, we have seen the seven stars!

DOLL TEARSHEET For God’s sake, thrust him downstairs. I cannot endure such a fustian rascal.

PISTOL Thrust him downstairs? Know we not Galloway nags?

SIR JOHN Quoit him down, Bardolph, like a shove-groat shilling. Nay, an a do nothing but speak nothing, a shall be nothing here.

BARDOLPH (to Pistol) Come, get you downstairs.

PISTOL ⌈taking up his sword⌉

What, shall we have incision? Shall we imbrue?

Then death rock me asleep, abridge my doleful days.

Why then, let grievous, ghastly, gaping wounds

Untwine the Sisters Three. Come, Atropos, I say!

MISTRESS QUICKLY Here’s goodly stuff toward!

SIR JOHN Give me my rapier, boy.

DOLL TEARSHEET I pray thee, Jack, I pray thee, do not draw.

SIR JOHN (taking his rapier and speaking to Pistol) Get you downstairs.

Sir John, Bardolph, and Pistol brawl

MISTRESS QUICKLY Here’s a goodly tumult! I’ll forswear keeping house afore I’ll be in these tirrits and frights!

⌈Sir John thrusts at Pistol⌉

So!

⌈Pistol thrusts at Sir John⌉

Murder, I warrant now! Alas, alas, put up your naked

weapons, put up your naked weapons!

Exit Pistol, pursued by Bardolph

DOLL TEARSHEET I pray thee, Jack, be quiet; the rascal’s gone. Ah, you whoreson little valiant villain, you!

MISTRESS QUICKLY (to Sir John) Are you not hurt i’th’ groin? Methought a made a shrewd thrust at your belly.

Enter Bardolph

SIR JOHN Have you turned him out o’doors?

BARDOLPH Yea, sir. The rascal’s drunk. You have hurt him, sir, i’th’ shoulder.

SIR JOHN A rascal, to brave me!

DOLL TEARSHEET Ah, you sweet little rogue, you! Alas, poor ape, how thou sweatest! Come, let me wipe thy face; come on, you whoreson chops. Ah rogue, i’faith, I love thee. Thou art as valorous as Hector of Troy, worth five of Agamemnon, and ten times better than the Nine Worthies. Ah, villain!

SIR JOHN A rascally slave! I will toss the rogue in a blanket.

DOLL TEARSHEET Do, an thou darest for thy heart. An thou dost, I’ll canvas thee between a pair of sheets.

Enter musicians

PAGE The music is come, sir.

SIR JOHN Let them play.—Play, sirs!

⌈Music plays⌉

Sit on my knee, Doll. A rascal bragging slave! The rogue fled from me like quicksilver.

DOLL TEARSHEET I‘faith, and thou followed’st him like a church. Thou whoreson little tidy Bartholomew boar-pig, when wilt thou leave fighting o‘days, and foining o’nights, and begin to patch up thine old body for heaven?

Enter Prince Harry and Poins, disguised as drawers

SIR JOHN Peace, good Doll, do not speak like a death’s-head, do not bid me remember mine end.

DOLL TEARSHEET Sirrah, what humour’s the Prince of?

SIR JOHN A good shallow young fellow. A would have made a good pantler; a would ha’ chipped bread well.

DOLL TEARSHEET They say Poins has a good wit.

SIR JOHN He a good wit? Hang him, baboon! His wit’s as thick as Tewkesbury mustard; there’s no more conceit in him than is in a mallet.

DOLL TEARSHEET Why does the Prince love him so, then?

SIR JOHN Because their legs are both of a bigness, and a plays at quoits well, and eats conger and fennel, and drinks off candles’ ends for flap-dragons, and rides the wild mare with the boys, and jumps upon joint-stools, and swears with a good grace, and wears his boot very smooth like unto the sign of the leg, and breeds no bate with telling of discreet stories, and such other gambol faculties a has that show a weak mind and an able body; for the which the Prince admits him; for the Prince himself is such another—the weight of a hair will turn the scales between their avoirdupois.