Enter Nym, Bardolph, Pistol and Boy.
BARDOLPH.
On, on, on, on, on! To the breach, to the breach!
NYM.
Pray thee, corporal, stay. The knocks are too hot; and, for mine own part, I have not a case of lives. The humour of it is too hot; that is the very plain-song of it.
PISTOL.
The plain-song is most just, for humours do abound.
Knocks go and come; God’s vassals drop and die;
And sword and shield,
In bloody field,
Doth win immortal fame.
BOY.
Would I were in an alehouse in London! I would give all my fame for a pot of ale and safety.
PISTOL.
And I.
If wishes would prevail with me,
My purpose should not fail with me,
But thither would I hie.
BOY.
As duly,
But not as truly,
As bird doth sing on bough.
Enter Fluellen.
FLUELLEN.
Up to the breach, you dogs! Avaunt, you cullions!
[Driving them forward.]