in thine own heir-apparent garters! If I be ta'en, I'll peach for this. An I have not ballads made on you all and sung to filthy tunes, let a cup of sack be my poison: when a jest is so forward, and afoot too! I hate it. Stand. So I do, against my will. O, 'tis our setter: I know his voice. Bardolph, what news? Case ye, case ye; on with your vizards: there 's money of the king's coming down the hill; 'tis going to the king's exchequer. You lie, ye rogue; 'tis going to the king's tavern. There's enough to make us all. To be hanged. Sirs, you four shall front them in the narrow lane; Ned Poins and I will walk lower: if they 'scape from your encounter, then they light on us. How many be there of them? Some eight or ten. 'Zounds, will they not rob us? What, a coward, Sir John Paunch? Indeed, I am not John of Gaunt, your grandfather; but yet no coward, Hal. Well, we leave that to the proof. Sirrah Jack, thy horse stands behind the hedge: when thou needest him, there thou shalt find him. Farewell, and stand fast. Now cannot I strike him, if I should be hanged. Ned, where are our disguises? Here, hard by: stand close. Now, my masters, happy man be his dole, say I: every man to his business. Come, neighbour: the boy shall lead our horses down the hill; we'll walk afoot awhile, and ease our legs. Stand! Jesus bless us! Strike; down with them; cut the villains' throats: ah! whoreson caterpillars! bacon-fed knaves! they hate us youth: down with them: fleece them. O, we are undone, both we and ours for ever! Hang ye, gorbellied knaves, are ye undone? No, ye fat chuffs: I would your store were here! On, bacons, on! What, ye knaves! young men must live. You are Grand-jurors, are ye? we'll jure ye, 'faith. The thieves have bound the true men. Now could thou and I rob the thieves and go merrily to London, it would be argument for a week, laughter for a month and a good jest for ever. Stand close; I hear them coming. Come, my masters, let us share, and then to horse before day. An the Prince and Poins be not two arrant cowards, there's no equity stirring: there's no more valour in that Poins than in a wild-duck.