DAVY.
I hope to see London once ere I die.
BARDOLPH.
An I might see you there, Davy,—
SHALLOW.
By the mass, you’ll crack a quart together, ha! will you not, Master Bardolph?
BARDOLPH.
Yea, sir, in a pottle-pot.
SHALLOW.
By God’s liggens, I thank thee. The knave will stick by thee, I can assure thee that. He will not out, he. ’Tis true bred.
BARDOLPH.
And I’ll stick by him, sir.
SHALLOW.
Why, there spoke a king. Lack nothing! Be merry.
[Knocking within.]
Look who’s at door there, ho! Who knocks?
[Exit Davy.]