Gow. Why, here he comes, swelling like a Turky-cock.
Flu. 'Tis no matter for his swelling, nor his Turky-cocks. God plesse you, aunchient Pistol: you scurvy, lowsie knave, God plesse you.
Pist. Ha! art thou bedlam? dost thou thirst, base Trojan, to have me fold up Parca's fatal web?
Hence, I am qualmish at the smell of leek.
Flu. I peseech you heartily, scurvy, lowsie knave, at my desires, and my requests, and my petitions, to eat, look you, this leek: because, look you, you do not love it; and your affections, and your appetites, and your digestions, does not agree with it; I would desire you to eat it.
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Pist. Not for Cadwallader and all his goats.