Wednesday, December 7, 2011
OWED TO WINE
Tiny bawbles in the wine.
Makes me innards feel fine,
An to me out'ards adds,
A tinge of red design.
Away, you cut-purse rascal! you filthy bung, away!
by this wine, I'll thrust my knife in your mouldy
chaps, an you play the saucy cuttle with me. Away,
you bottle-ale rascal! you basket-hilt stale
juggler, you! Since when, I pray you, sir? God's
light, with two points on your shoulder? much!
------------ Shakespeare, Henry IV, Part 2
Ye Gods! Me mouldy chaps be not clean,
Surely, my love, you shall not thrust thy knife hence.
Who is it, I say, that plays the saucy cuttle with my fair damsel?
It is not I! It is not I!
Tell me! Tell me, dear wife of mine,
Who plays the saucy cuttle with thy fair body?
His life! His life! I will scuttle his cuttle perchance to do no more.
No more, Pistol; I would not have you go off here:
discharge yourself of our company, Pistol.
----------- Shakespeare, Henry IV, Part 2
Enough! Enough, I say, and lay off the wine from now on. Ye Gods, man!
I don't like it when somebody talks about me chaps!
All right! All right! Enough already!