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!
The grave doth gape, and doting death is near,
Therefore exhale.
BARDOLPH.
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.
[Draws.]
PISTOL.
An oath of mickle might; and fury shall abate.
Give me thy fist, thy fore-foot to me give.
Thy spirits are most tall.
NYM.
I will cut thy throat, one time or other, in fair terms:
that is the humour of it.
