Though I could scape shot-free at London, I fear the shot
here. Here's no scoring but upon the pate. Soft! who are you?
Sir Walter Blunt. There's honour for you! Here's no vanity! I am
as hot as molten lead, and as heavy too. God keep lead out of me!
I need no more weight than mine own bowels. I have led my
rag-of-muffins where they are pepper'd. There's not three of my
hundred and fifty left alive; and they are for the town's end, to
beg during life. But who comes here?
Well, if Percy be alive, I'll pierce him. If he do come in my
way, so; if he do not, if I come in his willingly, let him make a
carbonado of me. I like not such grinning honour as Sir Walter
hath. Give me life; which if I can save, so; if not, honour comes
unlook'd for, and there's an end.