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Fal. Pistol, did you pick Master Slender’s purse?

Slen. Ay, by these gloves, did he, or I would I might never come in mine own great chamber again else, of seven groats in mill-sixpences, and two Edward shovel-boards, that cost me two shilling and two pence a-piece of Yead Miller—by these gloves.

Fal. Is this true, Pistol?

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

Pist.

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!

Slen. By these gloves, then ’twas he.

Nym. Be avis’d, sir, and pass good humors. I will say “marry trap” with you, if you run the nuthook’s humor on me—that is the very note of it.

Slen. By this hat, then he in the red face had it; for though I cannot remember what I did when you made me drunk, yet I am not altogether an ass.

Fal. What say you, Scarlet and John?

Bard. Why, sir, for my part, I say the gentleman had drunk himself out of his five sentences.