London. A street
Enter BEADLES, dragging in HOSTESS QUICKLY and DOLL TEARSHEET
No, thou arrant knave; I would to God that I might die,
that I might have thee hang'd. Thou hast drawn my shoulder out of
The constables have delivered her over to me; and she
shall have whipping-cheer enough, I warrant her. There hath been
a man or two lately kill'd about her.
Nut-hook, nut-hook, you lie. Come on; I'll tell thee what,
thou damn'd tripe-visag'd rascal, an the child I now go with do
miscarry, thou wert better thou hadst struck thy mother, thou
O the Lord, that Sir John were come! He would make this a
bloody day to somebody. But I pray God the fruit of her womb
If it do, you shall have a dozen of cushions again;
you have but eleven now. Come, I charge you both go with me; for
the man is dead that you and Pistol beat amongst you.
I'll tell you what, you thin man in a censer, I will have you
as soundly swing'd for this- you blue-bottle rogue, you filthy
famish'd correctioner, if you be not swing'd, I'll forswear
Come, come, you she knight-errant, come.
O God, that right should thus overcome might!
Well, of sufferance comes ease.
Come, you rogue, come; bring me to a justice.
Ay, come, you starv'd bloodhound.
Goodman death, goodman bones!
Thou atomy, thou!
Come, you thin thing! come, you rascal!