Flu. There is occasions and causes why and wherefore in all things: I will tell you, as my friend, Captain Gower: the rascally, scald, beggarly, lowsy, pragging knave, Pistol,—he is come to me, and prings me pread and salt yesterday, look you, and pid me eat my leek: it was in a place where I could not preed no contentions with him; but I will be so pold as to wear it in my cap till I see him once again, and then I will tell him a little piece of my desires.
Enter Pistol, R.H.
Gow. Why, here he comes, swelling like a turkey-cock.
Flu. ’Tis no matter for his swellings nor his turkey-cocks.—Heaven pless you, ancient Pistol! you scurvy, lowsy knave, Heaven pless you!
Pist. Ha! art thou Bedlam? dost thou thirst, base Trojan,
To have me fold up Parca’s fatal web?[1]
Hence! I am qualmish at the smell of leek.
Crosses to L.H.
Flu. I peseech you heartily, scurvy, lowsy knave, at my desires, and my requests, and my petitions, to eat, look you, this leek: because, look you, you do not love it, nor your affections, and your appetites, and your digestions, does not agree with it, I would desire you to eat it.
Pist. crosses to R.H. Not for Cadwallader and all his goats.