Part 25

Shal. Good M[aster]. Bardolfe: some wine, Dauie

Da. Sweet sir, sit: Ile be with you anon: most sweete sir, sit. Master Page, good M[aster]. Page, sit: Proface. What you want in meate, wee'l haue in drinke: but you beare, the heart's all

Shal. Be merry M[aster]. Bardolfe, and my little Souldiour there, be merry

Sil. Be merry, be merry, my wife ha's all. For women are Shrewes, both short, and tall: 'Tis merry in Hall, when Beards wagge all; And welcome merry Shrouetide. Be merry, be merry

Fal. I did not thinke M[aster]. Silence had bin a man of this Mettle

Sil. Who I? I haue beene merry twice and once, ere now

Dauy. There is a dish of Lether-coats for you

Shal. Dauie

Dau. Your Worship: Ile be with you straight. A cup of Wine, sir? Sil. A Cup of Wine, that's briske and fine, & drinke vnto the Leman mine: and a merry heart liues long-a

Fal. Well said, M[aster]. Silence

Sil. If we shall be merry, now comes in the sweete of the night

Fal. Health, and long life to you, M[aster]. Silence

Sil. Fill the Cuppe, and let it come. Ile pledge you a mile to the bottome

Shal. Honest Bardolfe, welcome: If thou want'st any thing, and wilt not call, beshrew thy heart. Welcome my little tyne theefe, and welcome indeed too: Ile drinke to M[aster]. Bardolfe, and to all the Cauileroes about London

Dau. I hope to see London, once ere I die

Bar. If I might see you there, Dauie

Shal. You'l cracke a quart together? Ha, will you not M[aster]. Bardolfe? Bar. Yes Sir, in a pottle pot

Shal. I thanke thee: the knaue will sticke by thee, I can assure thee that. He will not out, he is true bred

Bar. And Ile sticke by him, sir

Shal. Why there spoke a King: lack nothing, be merry. Looke, who's at doore there, ho: who knockes? Fal. Why now you haue done me right

Sil. Do me right, and dub me Knight, Samingo. Is't not so? Fal. 'Tis so

Sil. Is't so? Why then say an old man can do somwhat

Dau. If it please your Worshippe, there's one Pistoll come from the Court with newes

Fal. From the Court? Let him come in. Enter Pistoll.

How now Pistoll? Pist. Sir Iohn, 'saue you sir

Fal. What winde blew you hither, Pistoll? Pist. Not the ill winde which blowes none to good, sweet Knight: Thou art now one of the greatest men in the Realme

Sil. Indeed, I thinke he bee, but Goodman Puffe of Barson

Pist. Puffe? puffe in thy teeth, most recreant Coward base. Sir Iohn, I am thy Pistoll, and thy Friend: helter skelter haue I rode to thee, and tydings do I bring, and luckie ioyes, and golden Times, and happie Newes of price