SCENE IV. London. A street.

[Enter Beadles, dragging in Hostess Quickly and Doll Tearsheet.]

HOSTESS.
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.

FIRST BEADLE.
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.

DOLL.
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
paper-faced villain.

HOSTESS.
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!

FIRST BEADLE.
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.

DOLL.
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.

FIRST BEADLE.
Come, come, you she knight-errant, come.

HOSTESS.
O God, that right should thus overcome might! Well, of
sufferance comes ease.

DOLL.
Come, you rogue, come; bring me to a justice.

HOSTESS.
Ay, come, you starved blood-hound.

DOLL.
Goodman death, goodman bones!

HOSTESS.
Thou atomy, thou!

DOLL.
Come, you thin thing; come, you rascal!

FIRST BEADLE.
Very well.

[Exeunt.]