No, thou arrant knave. I would to God that I might die, that I might

have thee hanged. Thou hast drawn my shoulder out of joint.

The constables have delivered her over to me, and she shall have

whipping-cheer enough, I warrant her. There hath been a man or two

lately killed about her.

Nut-hook, nut-hook, you lie! Come on, I’ll tell thee what, thou damned

tripe-visaged rascal, an the child I now go with do miscarry, thou wert

better thou hadst struck thy mother, thou paper-faced villain.

O the Lord, that Sir John were come! He would make this a bloody day to

somebody. But I pray God the fruit of her womb miscarry!

If it do, you shall have a dozen of cushions again; you have but eleven

now. Come, I charge you both go with me, for the man is dead that you

and Pistol beat amongst you.

I’ll tell you what, you thin man in a censer, I will have you as

soundly swinged for this, you bluebottle rogue, you filthy famished

correctioner, if you be not swinged, I’ll forswear half-kirtles.

Come, come, you she knight-errant, come.

O God, that right should thus overcome might! Well, of sufferance comes

ease.

Come, you rogue, come, bring me to a justice.

Ay, come, you starved bloodhound.

Goodman death, goodman bones!

Thou atomy, thou!

Come, you thin thing, come, you rascal!

Very well.