BARDOLPH.
Good Lieutenant! good corporal! offer nothing here.
NYM.
Pish!
PISTOL.
Pish for thee, Iceland dog! thou prick-ear’d cur of Iceland!
HOSTESS.
Good Corporal Nym, show thy valour, and put up your sword.
NYM.
Will you shog off? I would have you solus.
PISTOL.
Solus, egregious dog! O viper vile!
The solus in thy most mervailous face;
The solus in thy teeth, and in thy throat,
And in thy hateful lungs, yea, in thy maw, perdy,
And, which is worse, within thy nasty mouth!
I do retort the solus in thy bowels;
For I can take, and Pistol’s cock is up,
And flashing fire will follow.
NYM.
I am not Barbason; you cannot conjure me. I have an humour to knock you indifferently well. If you grow foul with me, Pistol, I will scour you with my rapier, as I may, in fair terms. If you would walk off, I would prick your guts a little, in good terms, as I may; and that’s the humour of it.
PISTOL.
O braggart vile and damned furious wight!
The grave doth gape, and doting death is near,
Therefore exhale.
BARDOLPH.
Hear me, hear me what I say. He that strikes the first stroke I’ll run him up to the hilts, as I am a soldier.
[Draws.]