I cannot kiss, that is the humour of it; but, adieu Let housewifery appear: keep close, I thee command
The plain-song is most just: for humours do abound: Knocks go and come; God's vassals drop and die; And sword and shield, In bloody field, Doth win immortal fame
Be merciful, great duke, to men of mould. Abate thy rage, abate thy manly rage, Abate thy rage, great duke! Good bawcock, bate thy rage; use lenity, sweet chuck!
Bardolph, a soldier, firm and sound of heart, And of buxom valour, hath, by cruel fate, And giddy Fortune's furious fickle wheel, That goddess blind, That stands upon the rolling restless stone--
Fortune is Bardolph's foe, and frowns on him; For he hath stolen a pax, and hanged must a' be: A damned death! Let gallows gape for dog; let man go free And let not hemp his wind-pipe suffocate: But Exeter hath given the doom of death For pax of little price. Therefore, go speak: the duke will hea
God-a-mercy, old heart! thou speak'st cheerfully http://i791.photobucket.com/albums/yy199/ariawibawa/Morning_of_the_Battle_of_Agincourt_25th_October_1415.png Qui va la?
Then you are a better than the king The king's a bawcock, and a heart of gold, A lad of life, an imp of fame; Of parents good, of fist most valiant. I kiss his dirty shoe, and from heart-string I love the lovely bully. What is thy name?
Do not you wear your dagger in your cap that day, lest he knock that about yours Art thou his friend?