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