Pist. Shall dunghill Curres confront the Hellicons? And shall good newes be baffel'd? Then Pistoll lay thy head in Furies lappe Shal. Honest Gentleman, I know not your breeding Pist. Why then Lament therefore Shal. Giue me pardon, Sir. If sir, you come with news from the Court, I take it, there is but two wayes, either to vtter them, or to conceale them. I am Sir, vnder the King, in some Authority Pist. Vnder which King? Bezonian, speake, or dye Shal. Vnder King Harry Pist. Harry the Fourth? or Fift? Shal. Harry the Fourth Pist. A footra for thine Office. Sir Iohn, thy tender Lamb-kinne, now is King, Harry the Fift's the man, I speake the truth. When Pistoll lyes, do this, and figge-me, like The bragging Spaniard Fal. What, is the old King dead? Pist. As naile in doore. The things I speake, are iust Fal. Away Bardolfe, Sadle my Horse, Master Robert Shallow, choose what Office thou wilt In the Land, 'tis thine. Pistol, I will double charge thee With Dignities Bard. O ioyfull day: I would not take a Knighthood for my Fortune Pist. What? I do bring good newes Fal. Carrie Master Silence to bed: Master Shallow, my Lord Shallow, be what thou wilt, I am Fortunes Steward. Get on thy Boots, wee'l ride all night. Oh sweet Pistoll: Away Bardolfe: Come Pistoll, vtter more to mee: and withall deuise something to do thy selfe good. Boote, boote Master Shallow, I know the young King is sick for mee. Let vs take any mans Horsses: The Lawes of England are at my command'ment. Happie are they, which haue beene my Friendes: and woe vnto my Lord Chiefe Iustice Pist. Let Vultures vil'de seize on his Lungs also: Where is the life that late I led, say they? Why heere it is, welcome those pleasant dayes. Exeunt. Scena Quarta. Enter Hostesse Quickly, Dol Teare-sheete, and Beadles. Hostesse. No, thou arrant knaue: I would I might dy, that I might haue thee hang'd: Thou hast drawne my shoulder out of ioynt Off. The Constables haue deliuer'd her ouer to mee: and shee shall haue Whipping cheere enough, I warrant her. There hath beene a man or two (lately) kill'd about her Dol. Nut-hooke, nut-hooke, you Lye: Come on, Ile tell thee what, thou damn'd Tripe-visag'd Rascall, if the Childe I now go with, do miscarrie, thou had'st better thou had'st strooke thy Mother, thou Paper-fac'd Villaine Host. O that Sir Iohn were come, hee would make this a bloody day to some body. But I would the Fruite of her Wombe might miscarry Officer. If it do, you shall haue a dozen of Cushions againe, you haue but eleuen now. Come, I charge you both go with me: for the man is dead, that you and Pistoll beate among you Dol. Ile tell thee what, thou thin man in a Censor; I will haue you as soundly swindg'd for this, you blewBottel'd Rogue: you filthy famish'd Correctioner, if you be not swing'd, Ile forsweare halfe Kirtles Off. Come, come, you shee-Knight-arrant, come