now how wit may be made a Jack-a-Lent, when 'tis upon ill employment! Sir John Falstaff, serve Got, and leave your desires, and fairies will not pinse you. Well said, fairy Hugh. And leave your jealousies too, I pray you. I will never mistrust my wife again till thou art able to woo her in good English. Have I laid my brain in the sun and dried it, that it wants matter to prevent so gross o'erreaching as this? Am I ridden with a Welsh goat too? shall I have a coxcomb of frize? 'Tis time I were choked with a piece of toasted cheese. Seese is not good to give putter; your belly is all putter. 'Seese' and 'putter'! have I lived to stand at the taunt of one that makes fritters of English? This is enough to be the decay of lust and late-walking through the realm. Why Sir John, do you think, though we would have the virtue out of our hearts by the head and shoulders and have given ourselves without scruple to hell, that ever the devil could have made you our delight? What, a hodge-pudding? a bag of flax? A puffed man? Old, cold, withered and of intolerable entrails? And one that is as slanderous as Satan? And as poor as Job? And as wicked as his wife? And given to fornications, and to taverns and sack and wine and metheglins, and to drinkings and swearings and starings, pribbles and prabbles? Well, I am your theme: you have the start of me; I am dejected; I am not able to answer the Welsh flannel; ignorance itself is a plummet o'er me: use me as you will. Marry, sir, we'll bring you to Windsor, to one Master Brook, that you have cozened of money, to whom you should have been a pander: over and above that you have suffered, I think to repay that money will be a biting affliction. Yet be cheerful, knight: thou shalt eat a posset to-night at my house; where I will desire thee to laugh at my wife, that now laughs at thee: tell her Master Slender hath married her daughter. Doctors doubt that: if Anne Page be my daughter, she is, by this, Doctor Caius' wife. Whoa ho! ho, father Page! Son, how now! how now, son! have you dispatched? Dispatched! I'll make the best in Gloucestershire know on't; would I were hanged, la, else. Of what, son? I came yonder at Eton to marry Mistress Anne Page, and she's a great lubberly boy. If it