Pish!

PISTOL.
Pish for thee, Iceland dog! thou prick-ear'd cur of Iceland!

HOSTESS.
Good Corporal Nym, show thy valour, and put up your sword.

NYM.
Will you shog off? I would have you solus.

PISTOL.
"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 bowels;
For I can take, and Pistol's cock is up,
And flashing fire will follow.

NYM.
I am not Barbason; you cannot conjure me. I have an humour to
knock you indifferently well. If you grow foul with me, Pistol, I
will scour you with my rapier, as I may, in fair terms. If you
would walk off, I would prick your guts a little, in good terms,
as I may; and that's the humour of it.

PISTOL.
O braggart vile and damned furious wight!