Act 3 - Scene 2
Enter NYM, BARDOLPH, PISTOL, and Boy
On, on, on, on, on! to the breach, to the breach!
Pray thee, corporal, stay: the knocks are too hot;
and, for mine own part, I have not a case of lives:
humour of it is too hot, that is the very
plain-song of it.
The plain-song is most just: for humours do abound:
Knocks go and come; God's vassals drop and die;
sword and shield,
In bloody field,
Doth win immortal fame.
Would I were in an alehouse in London! I would give
all my fame for a pot of ale and safety.
If wishes would prevail with me,
My purpose should not fail with me,
But thither would I hie.
As duly, but not as truly,
As bird doth sing on bough.
Up to the breach, you dogs! avaunt, you cullions!
Driving them forward
Be merciful, great duke, to men of mould.
Abate thy rage, abate thy manly rage,
Abate thy rage, great
Good bawcock, bate thy rage; use lenity, sweet chuck!
These be good humours! your honour wins bad humours.
Exeunt all but Boy
As young as I am, I have observed these three
swashers. I am boy to them all three: but all they
though they would serve me, could not be man
to me; for indeed three such antics do not amount to
man. For Bardolph, he is white-livered and
red-faced; by the means whereof a' faces it out, but
For Pistol, he hath a killing tongue
and a quiet sword; by the means whereof a' breaks
words, and keeps
whole weapons. For Nym, he hath
heard that men of few words are the best men; and
therefore he scorns
to say his prayers, lest a'
should be thought a coward: but his few bad words
are matched with as few
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