Carry Master Silence to bed. Master Shallow, my
Lord Shallow,--be what thou wilt; I am fortune's
steward--get on thy boots: we'll ride all night.
O sweet Pistol! Away, Bardolph!
Come, Pistol, utter more to me; and withal devise
something to do thyself good. Boot, boot, Master
Shallow: I know the young king is sick for me. Let
us take any man's horses; the laws of England are at
my commandment. Blessed are they that have been my
friends; and woe to my lord chief-justice!