All of Shakespeare’s plays.
Doth Fortune play the huswife with me now?
News have I, that my Nell is dead i' the spital
Of malady of France;
And there my rendezvous is quite cut off.
Old I do wax; and from my weary limbs
Honour is cudgelled. Well, bawd I'll turn,
And something ...
All hell shall stir for this.
I take thy groat in earnest of revenge.
Me a groat!
Quiet thy cudgel; thou dost see I eat.
By this leek, I will most horribly revenge: I eat
and eat, I swear--
Must I bite?
Base Trojan, thou shalt die.
Not for Cadwallader and all his goats.
Ha! art thou bedlam? dost thou thirst, base Trojan,
To have me fold up Parca's fatal web?
Hence! I am qualmish at the smell of leek.
As I suck blood, I will some mercy show.
Expound unto me, boy.
Tell him my fury shall abate, and I the crowns will take.
What are his words?
Owy, cuppele gorge, permafoy,
Peasant, unless thou give me crowns, brave crowns;
Or mangled shalt thou be by this my sword.
Bid him prepare; for I will cut his throat.
Master Fer! I'll fer him, and firk him, and ferret
him: discuss the same in French unto him.
Say'st thou me so? is that a ton of moys?
Come hither, boy: ask me this slave in French
What is his name.
Thou damned and luxurious mountain goat,
Offer'st me brass?
Moy shall not serve; I will have forty moys;
Or I will fetch thy rim out at thy throat
In drops of crimson blood.
O, Signieur Dew should be a gentleman:
Perpend my words, O Signieur Dew, and mark;
O Signieur Dew, thou diest on point of fox,
Except, O signieur, thou do give to me
Qualtitie calmie custure me! Art thou a gentleman?
what is thy name? discuss.
My name is Pistol call'd.
The figo for thee, then!
Art thou his friend?
Tell him, I'll knock his leek about his pate
Upon Saint Davy's day.
Know'st thou Fluellen?
Le Roy! a Cornish name: art thou of Cornish crew?
The king's a bawcock, and a heart of gold,
A lad of life, an imp of fame;
Of parents good, of fist most valiant.
I kiss his dirty shoe, and from heart-string
I love the lovely bully. What is thy name?
As good a gentleman as the emperor.
Trail'st thou the puissant pike?
Discuss unto me; art thou officer?
Or art thou base, common and popular?
Qui va la?
The fig of Spain!
Die and be damn'd! and figo for thy friendship!
Why then, rejoice therefore.
Fortune is Bardolph's foe, and frowns on him;
For he hath stolen a pax, and hanged must a' be:
A damned death!
Let gallows gape for dog; let man go free
And let not hemp his wind-pipe suffocate:
But Exeter hath given the doom of death
For pax of ...
Bardolph, a soldier, firm and sound of heart,
And of buxom valour, hath, by cruel fate,
And giddy Fortune's furious fickle wheel,
That goddess blind,
That stands upon the rolling restless stone--
Captain, I thee beseech to do me favours:
The Duke of Exeter doth love thee well.
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!
If wishes would prevail with me,
My purpose should not fail with me,
But thither would I hie.
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.
Let housewifery appear: keep close, I thee command.
Touch her soft mouth, and march.
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:'
For oaths are straws, men's faiths are wafer-cakes,
And hold-fast is the only dog, my duck:
Therefore, Caveto be thy counsellor ...
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.
Let us condole the knight; for, lambkins we will live.
Nym, thou hast spoke the right;
His heart is fracted and corroborate.
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