“Bless thy lungs, good knight!” said the valiant Pistol, who had already shown himself publicly in his ancient haunts, and, indeed, turned a pretty penny by the acceptance of peace-offerings from myrmidons of the law, his former enemies and oppressors.
“Come here, Pistol; stand behind me,” said Sir John. Alack, how nervous he was getting! He twirled and plucked at the ends of his beard till he winced with pain. He gnawed his finger nails. He played the old gentleman’s tattoo with his mud-stained boot on the steaming rushes beneath him. He twisted buttons off his just-au-corps. His breath was short, his under lip drooped, and his teeth chattered.
“Oh, if I had had time to have made new liveries, I would have bestowed the thousand pounds I borrowed of you!”
Master Shallow winced. He, too, was nervous.
“But ‘tis no matter; this poor show doth better; this doth infer the zeal I had to see him.”
“It doth so.” Master Shallow breathed his answer thickly.
“It shows my earnestness in affection.”
“It doth so.”
“My devotion.”
“It doth, it doth, it doth.”