Henry V, Modern text based on the Quarto
Not Peer Reviewed
2896.1
[Scene 18]
¶
Enter Gower and Flewellen.
2900Flewellen There is occasion, Captain Gower, look you, why, and wherefore. ¶The other day, look you, Pistols, which you ¶know is a man of no 2905merits in the worell, is come where I was the other day, and brings bread and ¶salt, and bids me eat my leek. ¶'Twas in a place, look you, where I could move no dissentions, ¶but if I can see him, I shall tell him a little 2910of my desires.
¶Gower Here a comes, swelling like a turkey-cock.
¶
Enter Pistol.
¶Flewellen 'Tis no matter for his swelling and his 2915turkey-cocks. -- God pless you, Ancient Pistol, you scall, ¶beggarly, lousy knave, God pless you.
¶Pistol 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.
2920Flewellen Ancient Pistol, I would desire you, ¶because it doth not agree with your stomach, ¶and your appetite, and your ¶digestions, 2925to eat this leek.
¶Pistol Not for Cadwallader and all his goats.
¶Flewellen There is one goat for you, Ancient Pistol.
He strikes him [with a cudgel].
¶Pistol Base Trojan, thou shall die.
¶Gower Enough, captain. You have astonished him.
¶Flewellen Astonished him? By Jesu, I'll beat his head four days and four nights, ¶but I'll make him eat some part of my leek.
¶Pistol Well, must I bite?
He makes Ancient Pistol bite of the leek.
¶Pistol Good, good.
¶Flewellen Ay, leeks are good, Ancient Pistol. There is a shilling for you 2955to heal your bloody coxcomb.
[Offers money]
¶Pistol Me a shilling?
¶Pistol I take thy shilling in earnest of reckoning.
2960Flewellen If I owe you anything, I'll pay you in ¶cudgels. You shall be a woodmonger, and buy ¶cudgels. God b'wi' you, Ancient Pistol, God bless you, and heal your ¶broken pate. Ancient Pistol, if you see ¶leeks another time, mock at them, that is all. God b'wi' you.
¶
Exit Flewellen [and Gower].
¶Pistol All hell shall stir for this.
2975Doth fortune play the hussy with me now?
¶Is honor cudgeled from my warlike lines?
¶Well, France, farewell. News have I certainly
That Doll is sick on a ¶malady of France.
2977.1The wars affordeth naught. Home will I trug.
To England will I steal, and ¶there I'll steal,
¶And patches will I get unto these scars,
¶And swear I gat them in the Gallia wars.
Exit Pistol.
