SCENE IV. 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 hanged: thou hast
drawn my shoulder out of joint.
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 killed about her.
Nut-hook, nut-hook, you lie. Come on; I ‘ll tell
thee what, thou damned tripe-visaged 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 miscarry!
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 swinged for this,–you
blue-bottle rogue, you filthy famished correctioner,
if you be not swinged, I’ll forswear half-kirtles.