Well met, Corporal Nym.

Good morrow, Lieutenant Bardolph.

What, are Ancient Pistol and you friends yet?

For my part, I care not. I say little; but when time shall serve, there shall be smiles; but that shall be as it may. I dare not fight, but I will wink and hold out mine iron. It is a simple one, but what though? It will toast cheese, and it will endure cold as another man’s sword will; and there’s an end.

I will bestow a breakfast to make you friends; and we’ll be all three sworn brothers to France. Let it be so, good Corporal Nym.

Faith, I will live so long as I may, that’s the certain of it; and when I cannot live any longer, I will do as I may. That is my rest, that is the rendezvous of it.

It is certain, corporal, that he is married to Nell Quickly; and certainly she did you wrong, for you were troth-plight to her.

I cannot tell. Things must be as they may. Men may sleep, and they may have their throats about them at that time; and some say knives have edges. It must be as it may. Though patience be a tired mare, yet she will plod. There must be conclusions. Well, I cannot tell.

Here comes Ancient Pistol and his wife. Good Corporal, be patient here. How now, mine host Pistol!

No, by my troth, not long; for we cannot lodge and board a dozen or fourteen gentlewomen that live honestly by the prick of their needles, but it will be thought we keep a bawdy house straight. [Nym and Pistol draw.] O well a day, Lady, if he be not drawn now! We shall see wilful adultery and murder committed.

Good Lieutenant! good corporal! offer nothing here.

Pish!

Pish for thee, Iceland dog! thou prick-ear’d cur of Iceland!

Good Corporal Nym, show thy valour, and put up your sword.

Will you shog off? I would have you solus.

I am not Barbason; you cannot conjure me. I have an humour to knock you indifferently well. If you grow foul with me, Pistol, I will scour you with my rapier, as I may, in fair terms. If you would walk off, I would prick your guts a little, in good terms, as I may; and that’s the humour of it.

Hear me, hear me what I say. He that strikes the first stroke I’ll run him up to the hilts, as I am a soldier.

I will cut thy throat, one time or other, in fair terms: that is the humour of it.

Mine host Pistol, you must come to my master, and you, hostess. He is very sick, and would to bed. Good Bardolph, put thy face between his sheets, and do the office of a warming-pan. Faith, he’s very ill.

Away, you rogue!

Come, shall I make you two friends? We must to France together; why the devil should we keep knives to cut one another’s throats?

Let floods o’erswell, and fiends for food howl on!

You’ll pay me the eight shillings I won of you at betting?

Base is the slave that pays.

That now I will have: that’s the humour of it.

As manhood shall compound. Push home.

By this sword, he that makes the first thrust, I’ll kill him; by this sword, I will.

Sword is an oath, and oaths must have their course.

Corporal Nym, and thou wilt be friends, be friends; an thou wilt not, why, then, be enemies with me too. Prithee, put up.

I shall have my eight shillings I won from you at betting?

I shall have my noble?

In cash most justly paid.

Well, then, that’s the humour of’t.

The King hath run bad humours on the knight; that’s the even of it.

The King is a good king; but it must be as it may; he passes some humours and careers.

Let us condole the knight; for, lambkins, we will live.