Boy. Mine Hoast Pistoll, you must come to my Mayster, and your Hostesse: He is very sicke, & would to bed. Good Bardolfe, put thy face betweene his sheets, and do the Office of a Warming-pan: Faith, he's very ill
Bard. Away you Rogue
Host. By my troth he'l yeeld the Crow a pudding one of these dayes: the King has kild his heart. Good Husband come home presently.
Exit
Bar. Come, shall I make you two friends. Wee must to France together: why the diuel should we keep kniues to cut one anothers throats? Pist. Let floods ore-swell, and fiends for food howle on
Nym. You'l pay me the eight shillings I won of you
at Betting?
Pist. Base is the Slaue that payes
Nym. That now I wil haue: that's the humor of it
Pist. As manhood shal compound: push home.
Draw
Bard. By this sword, hee that makes the first thrust,
Ile kill him: By this sword, I wil