PISTOL.
Sweet knight, I kiss thy neaf. What! we have seen the seven stars.
DOLL.
For God’s sake, thrust him downstairs. I cannot endure such a fustian rascal.
PISTOL.
Thrust him downstairs? Know we not Galloway nags?
FALSTAFF.
Quoit him down, Bardolph, like a shove-groat shilling. Nay, an he do nothing but speak nothing, he shall be nothing here.
BARDOLPH.
Come, get you downstairs.
PISTOL.
What! shall we have incision? Shall we imbrue?
[Snatching up his sword.]
Then death rock me asleep, abridge my doleful days!
Why then, let grievous, ghastly, gaping wounds
Untwind the Sisters Three! Come, Atropos, I say!
HOSTESS.
Here’s goodly stuff toward!
FALSTAFF.
Give me my rapier, boy.