I’d wade up to the knees in blood, I’d make
A bridge of Spanish carcases, to single thee
Out of the gasping army.
And. Woot thou, prince?
Why even for that I love [thee.]
Bal. Tut, love me, man, when we have drunk
Hot blood together; wounds will tie
An everlasting settled amity,
And so shall thine.
And. And thine.