PISTOL.
Shall dunghill curs confront the Helicons?
And shall good news be baffled?
Then, Pistol, lay thy head in Furies’ lap.
SHALLOW.
Honest gentleman, I know not your breeding.
PISTOL.
Why then, lament therefor.
SHALLOW.
Give me pardon, sir. If, sir, you come with news from the court, I take it there’s but two ways, either to utter them, or conceal them. I am, sir, under the King, in some authority.
PISTOL.
Under which king, Besonian? Speak, or die.
SHALLOW.
Under King Harry.
PISTOL.
Harry the Fourth, or Fifth?
SHALLOW.
Harry the Fourth.
PISTOL.
A foutre for thine office!
Sir John, thy tender lambkin now is King;
Harry the Fifth’s the man. I speak the truth.
When Pistol lies, do this, and fig me, like
The bragging Spaniard.
FALSTAFF.
What, is the old King dead?