1. SCENE I. France. The English camp.
All hell shall stir for this.
Go, go; you are a couterfeit 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.
Doth Fortune play the huswife with me now?
News have I, that my Doll 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 cudgell'd. 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.