PISTOL. What! shall we have incision? Shall we imbrue? [_Snatching up his sword._] Then death rock me asleep, abridge my doleful days! Why then, let grievous, ghastly, gaping wounds Untwind the Sisters Three! Come, Atropos, I say! HOSTESS. Here’s goodly stuff toward! FALSTAFF. Give me my rapier, boy. DOLL. I pray thee, Jack, I pray thee, do not draw. FALSTAFF. Get you downstairs. [_Drawing, and driving Pistol out._] HOSTESS. Here’s a goodly tumult! I’ll forswear keeping house, afore I’ll be in these tirrits and frights. So, murder, I warrant now. Alas, alas, put up your naked weapons, put up your naked weapons. [_Exeunt Bardolph and Pistol._] DOLL. I pray thee, Jack, be quiet. The rascal’s gone. Ah, you whoreson little valiant villain, you! HOSTESS. Are you not hurt i’ th’ groin? Methought he made a shrewd thrust at your belly. Enter Bardolph. FALSTAFF. Have you turned him out o’ doors? BARDOLPH. Yea, sir. The rascal’s drunk. You have hurt him, sir, i’ th’ shoulder. FALSTAFF. A rascal, to brave me! DOLL. Ah, you sweet little rogue, you! Alas, poor ape, how thou sweat’st! Come, let me wipe thy face. Come on, you whoreson chops. Ah, rogue! i’ faith, I love thee. Thou art as valorous as Hector of Troy, worth five of Agamemnon, and ten times better than the Nine Worthies. Ah, villain! FALSTAFF. A rascally slave! I will toss the rogue in a blanket. DOLL. Do, an thou darest for thy heart. An thou dost, I’ll canvass thee between a pair of sheets. Enter Music. PAGE. The music is come, sir. FALSTAFF. Let them play. Play, sirs. Sit on my knee, Doll. A rascal bragging slave! The rogue fled from me like quicksilver. DOLL. I’ faith, and thou followedst him like a church. Thou whoreson little tidy Bartholomew boar-pig, when wilt thou leave fighting a-days and foining a-nights, and begin to patch up thine old body for heaven? Enter, behind, Prince Henry and Poins, disguised as drawers. FALSTAFF. Peace, good Doll, do not speak like a death’s-head; do not bid me remember mine end. DOLL. Sirrah, what humour ’s the Prince of? FALSTAFF. A good shallow young fellow; he would have made a good pantler; he would ha’ chipped bread well. DOLL. They say Poins has a good wit. FALSTAFF. He a good wit? Hang him, baboon! His wit’s as thick as Tewksbury mustard; there’s no more conceit in him than is in a mallet. DOLL. Why does the Prince love him so, then? FALSTAFF. Because their legs are both of a bigness, and he plays at quoits well, and eats conger and fennel, and drinks off candles’ ends for flap-dragons, and rides the wild mare with the boys, and jumps upon joint stools, and swears with a good grace, and wears his boots very smooth like unto the sign of the Leg, and breeds no bate with telling of discreet stories, and such other gambol faculties he has that show a weak mind and an able body, for the which the Prince admits him: for the Prince himself is such another. The weight of a hair will turn the scales between their avoirdupois.