buck; I warrant you, buck; and of the season too, it shall appear. Gentlemen, I have dreamed to-night; I'll tell you my dream. Here, here, here be my keys: ascend my chambers; search, seek, find out: I'll warrant we'll unkennel the fox. Let me stop this way first. So, now uncape. Good Master Ford, be contented: you wrong yourself too much. True, Master Page. Up, gentlemen: you shall see sport anon: follow me, gentlemen. This is fery fantastical humours and jealousies. By gar, 'tis no the fashion of France; it is not jealous in France. Nay, follow him, gentlemen; see the issue of his search. Is there not a double excellency in this? I know not which pleases me better, that my husband is deceived, or Sir John. What a taking was he in when your husband asked who was in the basket! I am half afraid he will have need of washing; so throwing him into the water will do him a benefit. Hang him, dishonest rascal! I would all of the same strain were in the same distress. I think my husband hath some special suspicion of Falstaff's being here; for I never saw him so gross in his jealousy till now. I will lay a plot to try that; and we will yet have more tricks with Falstaff: his dissolute disease will scarce obey this medicine. Shall we send that foolish carrion, Mistress Quickly, to him, and excuse his throwing into the water; and give him another hope, to betray him to another punishment? We will do it: let him be sent for to-morrow, eight o'clock, to have amends. I cannot find him: may be the knave bragged of that he could not compass. Heard you that? You use me well, Master Ford, do you? Ay, I do so. Heaven make you better than your thoughts! Amen! You do yourself mighty wrong, Master Ford. Ay, ay; I must bear it. If there be any pody in the house, and in the chambers, and in the coffers, and in the presses, heaven forgive my sins at the day of judgment! By gar, nor I too: there is no bodies. Fie, fie, Master Ford! are you not ashamed? What spirit, what devil suggests this imagination? I would not ha' your distemper in this kind for the wealth of Windsor Castle. 'Tis my fault, Master Page: I suffer for it. You suffer for a pad conscience: your wife is as honest a 'omans as I will