NYM.
I shall have my noble?
PISTOL.
In cash most justly paid.
NYM.
Well, then, that’s the humour of’t.
Enter Hostess.
HOSTESS.
As ever you come of women, come in quickly to Sir John.
Ah, poor heart! he is so shak’d of a burning quotidian tertian,
that it is most lamentable to behold. Sweet men, come to him.
NYM.
The King hath run bad humours on the knight; that’s the even of it.
PISTOL.
Nym, thou hast spoke the right.
His heart is fracted and corroborate.
NYM.
The King is a good king; but it must be as it may; he passes some humours and careers.
PISTOL.
Let us condole the knight; for, lambkins, we will live.
[Exeunt.]