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.