Nym

Pistol
Bardolph,
be blithe.—Nym, rouse thy vaunting veins.— Boy,
bristle thy courage up. For Falstaff, he is dead, and
we must earn therefore.
Bardolph
Would I were with him, wheresome’er he
is, either in heaven or in hell.

Trust none, for oaths are straws,
men’s faiths are wafer-cakes

Hostess
Nay,
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Bardolph
On, on, on, on, on! To the breach, to the breach!
Nym
Pray thee, corporal, stay. The knocks are too hot,
and, for mine own part, I have not a case of lives.
The humor of it is too hot; that is the very plainsong
of it.

Would I were in an alehouse in London!
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