Ha, ha, ha! you can do it, sir; you can do it: I
commend you well. Francis Feeble!
Here, sir.
What trade art thou, Feeble?
A woman's tailor, sir.
Shall I prick him, sir?
You may: but if he had been a man's tailor, he'ld
ha' pricked you. Wilt thou make as many holes in
an enemy's battle as thou hast done in a woman's petticoat?
I will do my good will, sir; you can have no more.
Well said, good woman's tailor! well said,
courageous Feeble! thou wilt be as valiant as the
wrathful dove or most magnanimous mouse. Prick the
woman's tailor: well, Master Shallow; deep, Master Shallow.
I would Wart might have gone, sir.
I would thou wert a man's tailor, that thou mightst
mend him and make him fit to go. I cannot put him
to a private soldier that is the leader of so many
thousands: let that suffice, most forcible Feeble.
It shall suffice, sir.
I am bound to thee, reverend Feeble. Who is next?
Peter Bullcalf o' the green!
Yea, marry, let's see Bullcalf.
Here, sir.
'Fore God, a likely fellow! Come, prick me Bullcalf
till he roar again.
O Lord! good my lord captain,--
What, dost thou roar before thou art pricked?
O Lord, sir! I am a diseased man.
What disease hast thou?
A whoreson cold, sir, a cough, sir, which I caught
with ringing in the king's affairs upon his
coronation-day, sir.
Come, thou shalt go to the wars in a gown; we wilt
have away thy cold; and I will take such order that
my friends shall ring for thee. Is here all?
Here is two more called than your number, you must
have but four here, sir: and so, I pray you, go in
with me to dinner.
Come, I will go drink with you, but I cannot tarry
dinner. I am glad to see you, by my troth, Master Shallow.
O, Sir John, do you remember since we lay all night
in the windmill in Saint George's field?
No more of that, good Master Shallow, no more of that.
Ha! 'twas a merry night. And is Jane Nightwork alive?
She lives, Master Shallow.
She never could away with me.
Never, never; she would always say she could not
abide Master Shallow.
SHALLOW By the mass, I could anger her to the heart. She
was then a bona-roba. Doth she hold her own well?
Old, old, Master Shallow.
Nay, she must be old; she cannot