No more, Pistol; I would not have you go off here:
discharge yourself of our company, Pistol.
No, Good Captain Pistol; not here, sweet captain.
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 slave, 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 as odious
as the word 'occupy;' which was an excellent good
word before it was ill sorted: therefore captains
had need look to 't.
Pray thee, go down, good ancient.
Hark thee hither, Mistress Doll.
Not I I tell thee what, Corporal Bardolph, I could
tear her: I'll be revenged of her.
Pray thee, go down.
I'll see her damned first; to Pluto's damned lake,
by this hand, to the infernal deep, with Erebus and
tortures vile also. Hold hook and line, say I.
Down, down, dogs! down, faitors! Have we not
Hiren here?
Good Captain Peesel, be quiet; 'tis very late, i'
faith: I beseek you now, aggravate your choler.
These be good humours, indeed! Shall pack-horses
And hollow pamper'd 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?
By my troth, captain, these are very bitter words.
Be gone, good ancient: this will grow to abrawl anon.
Die men like dogs! give crowns like pins! Have we
not Heren here?
O' my word, captain, there's none such here. What
the good-year! do you think I would deny her? For
God's sake, be quiet.
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.
Come we to full points here; and are etceteras nothing?
Pistol, I would be quiet.
Sweet knight, I kiss thy neaf: what! we have seen
the seven stars.
For God's sake, thrust him down stairs: I cannot
endure such a fustian rascal.
Thrust him down stairs! know we not Galloway nags?
Quoit him down, Bardolph, like a shove-groat
shilling: nay,