Boy. Mine host Pistol, you must come to my master,[4686]
and you, hostess: he is very sick, and would to bed.
Good Bardolph, put thy face between his sheets, and do[4687]
the office of a warming-pan. Faith, he's very ill.80
Bard. Away, you rogue!
Host. By my troth, he'll yield the crow a pudding one
of these days. The king has killed his heart. Good husband,
come home presently. [Exeunt Hostess and Boy.[4688]
Bard. Come, shall I make you two friends? We must85
to France together: why the devil should we keep knives
to cut one another's throats?
Pist. Let floods o'erswell, and fiends for food howl on!
Nym. You'll pay me the eight shillings I won of you
at betting?90
Pist. Base is the slave that pays.
Nym. That now I will have: that's the humour of it.
Pist. As manhood shall compound: push home.
[They draw.[4689]