[Enter the Boy.]

BOY.
Mine host Pistol, you must come to my master, and you,
hostess. He is very sick, and would to bed. Good Bardolph, put
thy face between his sheets, and do the office of a warming-pan.
Faith, he's very ill.

BARDOLPH.
Away, you rogue!

HOSTESS.
By my troth, he'll yield the crow a pudding one of these days.
The King has kill'd his heart.
Good husband, come home presently.

[Exeunt Hostess and Boy.]

BARDOLPH.
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?

PISTOL.
Let floods o'erswell, and fiends for food howl on!

NYM.
You'll pay me the eight shillings I won of you at betting?

PISTOL.