limbs were made in England, show us here The mettle of your pasture; let us swear That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not; For there is none of you so mean and base, That hath not noble lustre in your eyes. I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, Straining upon the start. The game's afoot: Follow your spirit, and upon this charge Cry 'God for Harry, England, and Saint George!' On, on, on, on, on! to the breach, to the breach! Pray thee, corporal, stay: the knocks are too hot; and, for mine own part, I have not a case of lives: the humour of it is too hot, that is the very plain-song of it. The plain-song is most just: for humours do abound: Knocks go and come; God's vassals drop and die; And sword and shield, In bloody field, Doth win immortal fame. Would I were in an alehouse in London! I would give all my fame for a pot of ale and safety. And I: If wishes would prevail with me, My purpose should not fail with me, But thither would I hie. As duly, but not as truly, As bird doth sing on bough. Up to the breach, you dogs! avaunt, you cullions! Be merciful, great duke, to men of mould. Abate thy rage, abate thy manly rage, Abate thy rage, great duke! Good bawcock, bate thy rage; use lenity, sweet chuck! These be good humours! your honour wins bad humours. As young as I am, I have observed these three swashers. I am boy to them all three: but all they three, though they would serve me, could not be man to me; for indeed three such antics do not amount to a man. For Bardolph, he is white-livered and red-faced; by the means whereof a' faces it out, but fights not. For Pistol, he hath a killing tongue and a quiet sword; by the means whereof a' breaks words, and keeps whole weapons. For Nym, he hath heard that men of few words are the best men; and therefore he scorns to say his prayers, lest a' should be thought a coward: but his few bad words are matched with as few good deeds; for a' never broke any man's head but his own, and that was against a post when he was drunk. They will steal any thing, and call it purchase. Bardolph stole a lute-case, bore it twelve leagues, and sold it for three half pence. Nym and Bardolph are sworn brothers in filching