PISTOL.
Ha! art thou bedlam? Dost thou thirst, base Trojan,
To have me fold up Parca’s fatal web?
Hence! I am qualmish at the smell of leek.
FLUELLEN.
I peseech you heartily, scurfy, lousy knave, at my desires, and my requests, and my petitions, to eat, look you, this leek. Because, look you, you do not love it, nor your affections and your appetites and your digestions does not agree with it, I would desire you to eat it.
PISTOL.
Not for Cadwallader and all his goats.
FLUELLEN.
There is one goat for you. [Strikes him.] Will you be so good, scald knave, as eat it?
PISTOL.
Base Trojan, thou shalt die.
FLUELLEN.
You say very true, scald knave, when God’s will is. I will desire you to live in the mean time, and eat your victuals. Come, there is sauce for it. [Strikes him.] You call’d me yesterday mountain-squire; but I will make you today a squire of low degree. I pray you, fall to; if you can mock a leek, you can eat a leek.
GOWER.
Enough, captain; you have astonish’d him.
FLUELLEN.
I say, I will make him eat some part of my leek, or I will peat his pate four days. Bite, I pray you; it is good for your green wound and your ploody coxcomb.
PISTOL.
Must I bite?
FLUELLEN.
Yes, certainly, and out of doubt and out of question too, and ambiguities.