honest lads, I will tell you what I am about.
Two yards, and more.
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.'
He hath studied her will, and translated her will,
out of honesty into English.
The anchor is deep: will that humour pass?
Now, the report goes she has all the rule of her
husband's purse: he hath a legion of angels.
As many devils entertain; and 'To her, boy,' say I.
The humour rises; it is good: humour me the angels.
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.
Then did the sun on dunghill shine.
I thank thee for that humour.
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.
Shall I Sir Pandarus of Troy become,
And by my side wear steel? then, Lucifer take all!
I will run no base humour: here, take the
humour-letter: I will keep the havior of reputation.
Hold, sirrah, bear you these letters tightly;
Sail like my pinnace to these golden shores.
Rogues, hence, avaunt! vanish like hailstones, go;
Trudge, plod away o' the hoof; seek shelter, pack!
Falstaff will learn the humour of the age,
French thrift, you rogues; myself and skirted page.
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!
I have operations which be humours of revenge.
Wilt thou revenge?