Gow. I know him not.
Enter Pistol, R.H.
Flu. Do you not know him? Here comes the man.
Pist. Captain, I thee beseech to do me favours:
The Duke of Exeter doth love thee well.
Flu. Ay, I praise Heaven; and I have merited some love at his hands.
Pist. Bardolph, a soldier, firm and sound of heart,
Of buxom valour,[6] hath,—by cruel fate,
And giddy fortune’s furious fickle wheel,
That goddess blind.