The Prince of Wales.—O villain! thy lips are scarce wiped since thou drunk’st last.
Sir John Falstaff.—All’s one for that. [He drinks.] A plague of all cowards, still say I.
The Prince of Wales.—What’s the matter?
Sir John Falstaff.—What’s the matter? there be four of us here have ta’en a thousand pound this day morning.
The Prince of Wales.—Where is it, Jack? where is it?
Sir John Falstaff.—Where is it? Taken from us it is: a hundred upon poor four of us.
The Prince of Wales.—What, a hundred, man?
Sir John Falstaff.—I am a rogue, if I were not at half-sword with a dozen of them two hours together. I have ‘scap’d by miracle. I am eight times thrust through the doublet; four through the hose; my buckler cut through and through; my sword hacked like a handsaw, ecce signum. I never dealt better since I was a man; all would not do. A plague of all cowards!—Let them speak: if they speak more or less than truth, they are villains, and the sons of darkness.