, and you knew me, as you did when you ran away by Gad's-hill: you knew I was at your back, and spoke it on purpose to try my patience. No, no, no; not so; I did not think thou wast within hearing. I shall drive you then to confess the wilful abuse; and then I know how to handle you. No abuse, Hal, o' mine honour, no abuse. Not to dispraise me, and call me pantier and bread-chipper and I know not what? No abuse, Hal. No abuse? No abuse, Ned, i' the world; honest Ned, none. I dispraised him before the wicked, that the wicked might not fall in love with him; in which doing, I have done the part of a careful friend and a true subject, and thy father is to give me thanks for it. No abuse, Hal: none, Ned, none: no, faith, boys, none. See now, whether pure fear and entire cowardice doth not make thee wrong this virtuous gentlewoman to close with us? is she of the wicked? is thine hostess here of the wicked? or is thy boy of the wicked? or honest Bardolph, whose zeal burns in his nose, of the wicked? Answer, thou dead elm, answer. The fiend hath pricked down Bardolph irrecoverable; and his face is Lucifer's privy-kitchen, where he doth nothing but roast malt-worms. For the boy, there is a good angel about him; but the devil outbids him too. For the women? For one of them, she is in hell already, and burns poor souls. For the other, I owe her money, and whether she be damned for that, I know not. No, I warrant you. No, I think thou art not; I think thou art quit for that. Marry, there is another indictment upon thee, for suffering flesh to be eaten in thy house, contrary to the law; for the which I think thou wilt howl. All victuallers do so; what's a joint of mutton or two in a whole Lent? You, gentlewoman,- What says your grace? His grace says that which his flesh rebels against. Who knocks so loud at door? Look to the door there, Francis. Peto, how now! what news? The king your father is at Westminster: And there are twenty weak and wearied posts Come from the north: and, as I came along, I met and overtook a dozen captains, Bare-headed, sweating, knocking at the taverns, And asking every one for Sir John Falstaff. By heaven, Poins, I feel me much to blame, So idly to