Be merciful, great duke, to men of mould. Abate thy rage, abate thy manly rage, Abate thy rage, great duke! Good bawcock, bate thy rage; use lenity, sweet chuck!
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
I cannot kiss, that is the humour of it; but, adieu Let housewifery appear: keep close, I thee command
Come, let's away. My love, give me thy lips. Look to my chattels and my movables: Let senses rule; the word is 'Pitch and Pay:' Trust none; For oaths are straws, men's faiths are wafer-cakes, And hold-fast is the only dog, my duck: Therefore, Caveto be thy counsellor. Go, clear thy c rystals. Yoke
No; for my manly heart doth yearn Bardolph, be blithe: Nym, rouse thy vaunting veins: Boy, bristle thy courage up; for Falstaff he is dead, And we must yearn therefore
The king is a good king: but it must be as it may; he passes some humours and careers Let us condole the knight; for, lambkins we will live
The king hath run bad humours on the knight; that's the even of it Nym, thou hast spoke the right; His heart is fracted and corroborate
A noble shalt thou have, and present pay; And liquor likewise will I give to thee, And friendship shall combine, and brotherhood: I'll live by Nym, and Nym shall live by me; Is not this just? for I shall sutler be Unto the camp, and profits will accrue. Give me thy hand
By this sword, he that makes the first thrust, I'll kill him; by this sword, I will Sword is an oath, and oaths must have their course
Come, shall I make you two friends? We must to France together: why the devil should we keep knives to cut one another's throats? Let floods o'erswell, and fiends for food howl on!
I will cut thy throat, one time or other, in fair terms: that is the humour of it 'Couple a gorge!' That is the word. I thee defy again. O hound of Crete, think'st thou my spouse to get? No; to the spital go, And from the powdering tub of infamy Fetch forth the lazar kite of Cressid's kind, Dol
Hear me, hear me what I say: he that strikes the first stroke, I'll run him up to the hilts, as I am a soldier An oath of mickle might; and fury shall abate. Give me thy fist, thy fore-foot to me give: Thy spirits are most tall
O braggart vile and damned furious wight! The grave doth gape, and doting death is near; Therefore exhale
Will you shog off? I would have you solus 'Solus,' egregious dog? O viper vile! The 'solus' in thy most mervailous face; The 'solus' in thy teeth, and in thy throat, And in thy hateful lungs, yea, in thy maw, perdy, And, which is worse, within thy nasty mouth! I do retort the 'solus' in thy bowe