Speeches (Lines) for Pistol in "History of Henry V"

Bardolph. Here comes Ancient Pistol and his wife: good
corporal, be patient here. How now, mine host Pistol!

Pistol. Base tike, call'st thou me host? Now, by this hand,
I swear, I scorn the term; Nor shall my Nell keep lodgers.

Nym. Pish!

Pistol. Pish for thee, Iceland dog! thou prick-ear'd cur of Iceland!

Nym. Will you shog off? I would have you solus.

Pistol. 'Solus,' egregious dog? O viper vile!
The 'solus' in thy most mervailous face;
The 'solus' in thy teeth, and in thy throat,
And in thy hateful lungs, yea, in thy maw, perdy,
And, which is worse, within thy nasty mouth!
I do retort the 'solus' in thy bowels;
For I can take, and Pistol's cock is up,
And flashing fire will follow.

Nym. I am not Barbason; you cannot conjure me. I have an
humour to knock you indifferently well. If you grow
foul with me, Pistol, I will scour you with my
rapier, as I may, in fair terms: if you would walk
off, I would prick your guts a little, in good
terms, as I may: and that's the humour of it.

Pistol. O braggart vile and damned furious wight!
The grave doth gape, and doting death is near;
Therefore exhale.

Bardolph. Hear me, hear me what I say: he that strikes the
first stroke, I'll run him up to the hilts, as I am a soldier.

Pistol. An oath of mickle might; and fury shall abate.
Give me thy fist, thy fore-foot to me give:
Thy spirits are most tall.

Nym. I will cut thy throat, one time or other, in fair
terms: that is the humour of it.

Pistol. 'Couple a gorge!'
That is the word. I thee defy again.
O hound of Crete, think'st thou my spouse to get?
No; to the spital go,
And from the powdering tub of infamy
Fetch forth the lazar kite of Cressid's kind,
Doll Tearsheet she by name, and her espouse:
I have, and I will hold, the quondam Quickly
For the only she; and--pauca, there's enough. Go to.

Bardolph. Come, shall I make you two friends? We must to
France together: why the devil should we keep
knives to cut one another's throats?

Pistol. Let floods o'erswell, and fiends for food howl on!

Nym. You'll pay me the eight shillings I won of you at betting?

Pistol. Base is the slave that pays.

Nym. That now I will have: that's the humour of it.

Pistol. As manhood shall compound: push home.

Bardolph. By this sword, he that makes the first thrust, I'll
kill him; by this sword, I will.

Pistol. Sword is an oath, and oaths must have their course.

Nym. I shall have my eight shillings I won of you at betting?

Pistol. A noble shalt thou have, and present pay;
And liquor likewise will I give to thee,
And friendship shall combine, and brotherhood:
I'll live by Nym, and Nym shall live by me;
Is not this just? for I shall sutler be
Unto the camp, and profits will accrue.
Give me thy hand.

Nym. I shall have my noble?

Pistol. In cash most justly paid.

Nym. The king hath run bad humours on the knight; that's
the even of it.

Pistol. Nym, thou hast spoke the right;
His heart is fracted and corroborate.

Nym. The king is a good king: but it must be as it may;
he passes some humours and careers.

Pistol. Let us condole the knight; for, lambkins we will live.

Mistress Quickly. Prithee, honey-sweet husband, let me bring thee to Staines.

Pistol. No; for my manly heart doth yearn.
Bardolph, be blithe: Nym, rouse thy vaunting veins:
Boy, bristle thy courage up; for Falstaff he is dead,
And we must yearn therefore.

Nym. Shall we shog? the king will be gone from
Southampton.

Pistol. Come, let's away. My love, give me thy lips.
Look to my chattels and my movables:
Let senses rule; the word is 'Pitch and Pay:'
Trust none;
For oaths are straws, men's faiths are wafer-cakes,
And hold-fast is the only dog, my duck:
Therefore, Caveto be thy counsellor.
Go, clear thy crystals. Yoke-fellows in arms,
Let us to France; like horse-leeches, my boys,
To suck, to suck, the very blood to suck!

Boy. And that's but unwholesome food they say.

Pistol. Touch her soft mouth, and march.

Nym. I cannot kiss, that is the humour of it; but, adieu.

Pistol. Let housewifery appear: keep close, I thee command.

Nym. Pray thee, corporal, stay: the knocks are too hot;
and, for mine own part, I have not a case of lives:
the humour of it is too hot, that is the very
plain-song of it.

Pistol. 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.

Boy. Would I were in an alehouse in London! I would give
all my fame for a pot of ale and safety.

Pistol. And I:
If wishes would prevail with me,
My purpose should not fail with me,
But thither would I hie.

Fluellen. Up to the breach, you dogs! avaunt, you cullions!

Pistol. 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!

Fluellen. Here is the man.

Pistol. Captain, I thee beseech to do me favours:
The Duke of Exeter doth love thee well.

Fluellen. Ay, I praise God; and I have merited some love at
his hands.

Pistol. 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--

Fluellen. By your patience, Aunchient Pistol. Fortune is
painted blind, with a muffler afore her eyes, to
signify to you that Fortune is blind; and she is
painted also with a wheel, to signify to you, which
is the moral of it, that she is turning, and
inconstant, and mutability, and variation: and her
foot, look you, is fixed upon a spherical stone,
which rolls, and rolls, and rolls: in good truth,
the poet makes a most excellent description of it:
Fortune is an excellent moral.

Pistol. 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 hear thy voice:
And let not Bardolph's vital thread be cut
With edge of penny cord and vile reproach:
Speak, captain, for his life, and I will thee requite.

Fluellen. Aunchient Pistol, I do partly understand your meaning.

Pistol. Why then, rejoice therefore.

Fluellen. Certainly, aunchient, it is not a thing to rejoice
at: for if, look you, he were my brother, I would
desire the duke to use his good pleasure, and put
him to execution; for discipline ought to be used.

Pistol. Die and be damn'd! and figo for thy friendship!

Fluellen. It is well.

Pistol. The fig of Spain!

Henry V. God-a-mercy, old heart! thou speak'st cheerfully.

Pistol. Qui va la?

Henry V. A friend.

Pistol. Discuss unto me; art thou officer?
Or art thou base, common and popular?

Henry V. I am a gentleman of a company.

Pistol. Trail'st thou the puissant pike?

Henry V. Even so. What are you?

Pistol. As good a gentleman as the emperor.

Henry V. Then you are a better than the king.

Pistol. 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?

Henry V. Harry le Roy.

Pistol. Le Roy! a Cornish name: art thou of Cornish crew?

Henry V. No, I am a Welshman.

Pistol. Know'st thou Fluellen?

Henry V. Yes.

Pistol. Tell him, I'll knock his leek about his pate
Upon Saint Davy's day.

Henry V. Do not you wear your dagger in your cap that day,
lest he knock that about yours.

Pistol. Art thou his friend?

Henry V. And his kinsman too.

Pistol. The figo for thee, then!

Henry V. I thank you: God be with you!

Pistol. My name is Pistol call'd.

Henry V. Take it, brave York. Now, soldiers, march away:
And how thou pleasest, God, dispose the day!

Pistol. Yield, cur!

French Soldier. Je pense que vous etes gentilhomme de bonne qualite.

Pistol. Qualtitie calmie custure me! Art thou a gentleman?
what is thy name? discuss.

French Soldier. O Seigneur Dieu!

Pistol. O, Signieur Dew should be a gentleman:
Perpend my words, O Signieur Dew, and mark;
O Signieur Dew, thou diest on point of fox,
Except, O signieur, thou do give to me
Egregious ransom.

French Soldier. O, prenez misericorde! ayez pitie de moi!

Pistol. Moy shall not serve; I will have forty moys;
Or I will fetch thy rim out at thy throat
In drops of crimson blood.

French Soldier. Est-il impossible d'echapper la force de ton bras?

Pistol. Brass, cur!
Thou damned and luxurious mountain goat,
Offer'st me brass?

French Soldier. O pardonnez moi!

Pistol. Say'st thou me so? is that a ton of moys?
Come hither, boy: ask me this slave in French
What is his name.

Boy. He says his name is Master Fer.

Pistol. Master Fer! I'll fer him, and firk him, and ferret
him: discuss the same in French unto him.

Boy. I do not know the French for fer, and ferret, and firk.

Pistol. Bid him prepare; for I will cut his throat.

Boy. Il me commande de vous dire que vous faites vous
pret; car ce soldat ici est dispose tout a cette
heure de couper votre gorge.

Pistol. Owy, cuppele gorge, permafoy,
Peasant, unless thou give me crowns, brave crowns;
Or mangled shalt thou be by this my sword.

French Soldier. O, je vous supplie, pour l'amour de Dieu, me
pardonner! Je suis gentilhomme de bonne maison:
gardez ma vie, et je vous donnerai deux cents ecus.

Pistol. What are his words?

Boy. He prays you to save his life: he is a gentleman of
a good house; and for his ransom he will give you
two hundred crowns.

Pistol. Tell him my fury shall abate, and I the crowns will take.

French Soldier. Sur mes genoux je vous donne mille remercimens; et
je m'estime heureux que je suis tombe entre les
mains d'un chevalier, je pense, le plus brave,
vaillant, et tres distingue seigneur d'Angleterre.

Pistol. Expound unto me, boy.

Boy. He gives you, upon his knees, a thousand thanks; and
he esteems himself happy that he hath fallen into
the hands of one, as he thinks, the most brave,
valorous, and thrice-worthy signieur of England.

Pistol. As I suck blood, I will some mercy show.
Follow me!

Fluellen. 'Tis no matter for his swellings nor his
turkey-cocks. God pless you, Aunchient Pistol! you
scurvy, 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.

Fluellen. I peseech you heartily, scurvy, lousy knave, at my
desires, and my requests, and my petitions, to eat,
look you, this leek: because, look you, you do not
love it, nor your affections and your appetites and
your digestions doo's not agree with it, I would
desire you to eat it.

Pistol. Not for Cadwallader and all his goats.

Fluellen. There is one goat for you.
[Strikes him]
Will you be so good, scauld knave, as eat it?

Pistol. Base Trojan, thou shalt die.

Fluellen. I say, I will make him eat some part of my leek, or
I will peat his pate four days. Bite, I pray you; it
is good for your green wound and your ploody coxcomb.

Pistol. Must I bite?

Fluellen. Yes, certainly, and out of doubt and out of question
too, and ambiguities.

Pistol. By this leek, I will most horribly revenge: I eat
and eat, I swear--

Fluellen. Eat, I pray you: will you have some more sauce to
your leek? there is not enough leek to swear by.

Pistol. Quiet thy cudgel; thou dost see I eat.

Fluellen. Much good do you, scauld knave, heartily. Nay, pray
you, throw none away; the skin is good for your
broken coxcomb. When you take occasions to see leeks
hereafter, I pray you, mock at 'em; that is all.

Pistol. Good.

Fluellen. Ay, leeks is good: hold you, there is a groat to
heal your pate.

Pistol. Me a groat!

Fluellen. Yes, verily and in truth, you shall take it; or I
have another leek in my pocket, which you shall eat.

Pistol. I take thy groat in earnest of revenge.

Fluellen. If I owe you any thing, I will pay you in cudgels:
you shall be a woodmonger, and buy nothing of me but
cudgels. God b' wi' you, and keep you, and heal your pate.

Pistol. All hell shall stir for this.

Gower. Go, go; you are a counterfeit cowardly knave. Will
you mock at an ancient tradition, begun upon an
honourable respect, and worn as a memorable trophy of
predeceased valour and dare not avouch in your deeds
any of your words? I have seen you gleeking and
galling at this gentleman twice or thrice. You
thought, because he could not speak English in the
native garb, he could not therefore handle an
English cudgel: you find it otherwise; and
henceforth let a Welsh correction teach you a good
English condition. Fare ye well.

Pistol. Doth Fortune play the huswife with me now?
News have I, that my Nell is dead i' the spital
Of malady of France;
And there my rendezvous is quite cut off.
Old I do wax; and from my weary limbs
Honour is cudgelled. Well, bawd I'll turn,
And something lean to cutpurse of quick hand.
To England will I steal, and there I'll steal:
And patches will I get unto these cudgell'd scars,
And swear I got them in the Gallia wars.