Speeches (Lines) for Pistol
in "Merry Wives of Windsor"

Total: 29

# Act, Scene, Line
(Click to see in context)
Speech text



Slender. Ay, it is no matter.

Pistol. How now, Mephostophilus!



Falstaff. Pistol!

Pistol. He hears with ears.



Sir Hugh Evans. No; it is false, if it is a pick-purse.

Pistol. Ha, thou mountain-foreigner! Sir John and Master mine,
I combat challenge of this latten bilbo.
Word of denial in thy labras here!
Word of denial: froth and scum, thou liest!



Bardolph. It is a life that I have desired: I will thrive.

Pistol. O base Hungarian wight! wilt thou the spigot wield?



Nym. The good humour is to steal at a minute's rest.

Pistol. 'Convey,' the wise it call. 'Steal!' foh! a fico
for the phrase!



Falstaff. Well, sirs, I am almost out at heels.

Pistol. Why, then, let kibes ensue.



Falstaff. There is no remedy; I must cony-catch; I must shift.

Pistol. Young ravens must have food.



Falstaff. Which of you know Ford of this town?

Pistol. I ken the wight: he is of substance good.



Falstaff. My honest lads, I will tell you what I am about.

Pistol. Two yards, and more.



Falstaff. No quips now, Pistol! Indeed, I am in the waist two
yards about; but I am now about no waste; I am about
thrift. Briefly, I do mean to make love to Ford's
wife: I spy entertainment in her; she discourses,
she carves, she gives the leer of invitation: I
can construe the action of her familiar style; and
the hardest voice of her behavior, to be Englished
rightly, is, 'I am Sir John Falstaff's.'

Pistol. He hath studied her will, and translated her will,
out of honesty into English.



Falstaff. Now, the report goes she has all the rule of her
husband's purse: he hath a legion of angels.

Pistol. As many devils entertain; and 'To her, boy,' say I.



Falstaff. I have writ me here a letter to her: and here
another to Page's wife, who even now gave me good
eyes too, examined my parts with most judicious
oeillades; sometimes the beam of her view gilded my
foot, sometimes my portly belly.

Pistol. Then did the sun on dunghill shine.



Falstaff. O, she did so course o'er my exteriors with such a
greedy intention, that the appetite of her eye did
seem to scorch me up like a burning-glass! Here's
another letter to her: she bears the purse too; she
is a region in Guiana, all gold and bounty. I will
be cheater to them both, and they shall be
exchequers to me; they shall be my East and West
Indies, and I will trade to them both. Go bear thou
this letter to Mistress Page; and thou this to
Mistress Ford: we will thrive, lads, we will thrive.

Pistol. Shall I Sir Pandarus of Troy become,
And by my side wear steel? then, Lucifer take all!



(stage directions). [Exeunt FALSTAFF and ROBIN]

Pistol. Let vultures gripe thy guts! for gourd and fullam holds,
And high and low beguiles the rich and poor:
Tester I'll have in pouch when thou shalt lack,
Base Phrygian Turk!



Nym. I have operations which be humours of revenge.

Pistol. Wilt thou revenge?



Nym. By welkin and her star!

Pistol. With wit or steel?



Nym. With both the humours, I:
I will discuss the humour of this love to Page.

Pistol. And I to Ford shall eke unfold
How Falstaff, varlet vile,
His dove will prove, his gold will hold,
And his soft couch defile.



Nym. My humour shall not cool: I will incense Page to
deal with poison; I will possess him with
yellowness, for the revolt of mine is dangerous:
that is my true humour.

Pistol. Thou art the Mars of malecontents: I second thee; troop on.



Ford. Well, I hope it be not so.

Pistol. Hope is a curtal dog in some affairs:
Sir John affects thy wife.



Ford. Why, sir, my wife is not young.

Pistol. He wooes both high and low, both rich and poor,
Both young and old, one with another, Ford;
He loves the gallimaufry: Ford, perpend.



Ford. Love my wife!

Pistol. With liver burning hot. Prevent, or go thou,
Like Sir Actaeon he, with Ringwood at thy heels:
O, odious is the name!



Ford. What name, sir?

Pistol. The horn, I say. Farewell.
Take heed, have open eye, for thieves do foot by night:
Take heed, ere summer comes or cuckoo-birds do sing.
Away, Sir Corporal Nym!
Believe it, Page; he speaks sense.



Falstaff. I will not lend thee a penny.

Pistol. Why, then the world's mine oyster.
Which I with sword will open.



Falstaff. Not a penny. I have been content, sir, you should
lay my countenance to pawn; I have grated upon my
good friends for three reprieves for you and your
coach-fellow Nym; or else you had looked through
the grate, like a geminy of baboons. I am damned in
hell for swearing to gentlemen my friends, you were
good soldiers and tall fellows; and when Mistress
Bridget lost the handle of her fan, I took't upon
mine honour thou hadst it not.

Pistol. Didst not thou share? hadst thou not fifteen pence?



Falstaff. Reason, you rogue, reason: thinkest thou I'll
endanger my soul gratis? At a word, hang no more
about me, I am no gibbet for you. Go. A short knife
and a throng! To your manor of Pickt-hatch! Go.
You'll not bear a letter for me, you rogue! you
stand upon your honour! Why, thou unconfinable
baseness, it is as much as I can do to keep the
terms of my honour precise: I, I, I myself
sometimes, leaving the fear of God on the left hand
and hiding mine honour in my necessity, am fain to
shuffle, to hedge and to lurch; and yet you, rogue,
will ensconce your rags, your cat-a-mountain
looks, your red-lattice phrases, and your
bold-beating oaths, under the shelter of your
honour! You will not do it, you!

Pistol. I do relent: what would thou more of man?



Falstaff. Fare thee well: commend me to them both: there's
my purse; I am yet thy debtor. Boy, go along with
this woman.
This news distracts me!

Pistol. This punk is one of Cupid's carriers:
Clap on more sails; pursue; up with your fights:
Give fire: she is my prize, or ocean whelm them all!



Hostess Quickly. Fairies, black, grey, green, and white,
You moonshine revellers and shades of night,
You orphan heirs of fixed destiny,
Attend your office and your quality.
Crier Hobgoblin, make the fairy oyes.

Pistol. Elves, list your names; silence, you airy toys.
Cricket, to Windsor chimneys shalt thou leap:
Where fires thou find'st unraked and hearths unswept,
There pinch the maids as blue as bilberry:
Our radiant queen hates sluts and sluttery.



Falstaff. Heavens defend me from that Welsh fairy, lest he
transform me to a piece of cheese!

Pistol. Vile worm, thou wast o'erlook'd even in thy birth.



Hostess Quickly. With trial-fire touch me his finger-end:
If he be chaste, the flame will back descend
And turn him to no pain; but if he start,
It is the flesh of a corrupted heart.

Pistol. A trial, come.

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