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By Root 21069 0

I know him not; yet I wrong him to call him poor; they say the jealous wittolly knave hath masses of money; for the which his wife seems to me well-favour'd. I will use her as the key of the cuckoldly rogue's coffer; and there's my harvest-home. FORD. I would you knew Ford, sir, that you might avoid him if you saw him. FALSTAFF. Hang him, mechanical salt-butter rogue! I will stare him out of his wits; I will awe him with my cudgel; it shall hang like a meteor o'er the cuckold's horns. Master Brook, thou shalt know I will predominate over the peasant, and thou shalt lie with his wife. Come to me soon at night. Ford's a knave, and I will aggravate his style; thou, Master Brook, shalt know him for knave and cuckold. Come to me soon at night. Exit FORD. What a damn'd Epicurean rascal is this! My heart is ready to crack with impatience. Who says this is improvident jealousy? My wife hath sent to him; the hour is fix'd; the match is made. Would any man have thought this? See the hell of having a false woman! My bed shall be abus'd, my coffers ransack'd, my reputation gnawn at; and I shall not only receive this villainous wrong, but stand under the adoption of abominable terms, and by him that does me this wrong. Terms! names! Amaimon sounds well; Lucifer, well; Barbason, well; yet they are devils' additions, the names of fiends. But cuckold! Wittol! Cuckold! the devil himself hath not such a name. Page is an ass, a secure ass; he will trust his wife; he will not be jealous; I will rather trust a Fleming with my butter, Parson Hugh the Welshman with my cheese, an Irishman with my aqua-vitae bottle, or a thief to walk my ambling gelding, than my wife with herself. Then she plots, then she ruminates, then she devises; and what they think in their hearts they may effect, they will break their hearts but they will effect. God be prais'd for my jealousy! Eleven o'clock the hour. I will prevent this, detect my wife, be reveng'd on Falstaff, and laugh at Page. I will about it; better three hours too soon than a minute too late. Fie, fie, fie! cuckold! cuckold! cuckold! Exit

SCENE 3.

A field near Windsor

Enter CAIUS and RUGBY

CAIUS.

Jack Rugby!

RUGBY.

Sir?

CAIUS.

Vat is de clock, Jack?

RUGBY.

'Tis past the hour, sir, that Sir Hugh promis'd to meet.

CAIUS.

By gar, he has save his soul dat he is no come; he has

pray his Pible well dat he is no come; by gar, Jack Rugby,

he is dead already, if he be come.

RUGBY.

He is wise, sir; he knew your worship would kill him if he came.

CAIUS.

By gar, de herring is no dead so as I vill kill him.

Take

your rapier, Jack; I vill tell you how I vill kill him.

RUGBY.

Alas, sir, I cannot fence!

CAIUS.

Villainy, take your rapier.

RUGBY.

Forbear; here's company.

Enter HOST, SHALLOW, SLENDER, and PAGE

HOST.

Bless thee, bully doctor!

SHALLOW.

Save you, Master Doctor Caius!

PAGE.

Now, good Master Doctor!

SLENDER.

Give you good morrow, sir.

CAIUS.

Vat be all you, one, two, tree, four, come for?

HOST.

To see thee fight, to see thee foin, to see thee traverse;

to see thee here, to see thee there; to see thee pass thy

punto, thy stock, thy reverse, thy distance, thy montant.

Is he dead, my Ethiopian? Is he dead, my Francisco? Ha,

bully! What says my Aesculapius? my Galen? my heart

of elder? Ha! is he dead, bully stale? Is he dead?

CAIUS.

By gar, he is de coward Jack priest of de world; he is not show his face.

HOST.

Thou art a Castalion-King-Urinal. Hector of Greece,

my boy!

CAIUS.

I pray you, bear witness that me have stay six or

seven, two tree hours for him, and he is no come.

SHALLOW.

He is the wiser man, Master Doctor: he is a curer

of souls, and you a curer of bodies; if you should fight,

you go against the hair of your professions. Is it not true,

Master Page?

PAGE.

Master Shallow, you have yourself been a great fighter,

though now a man of peace.

SHALLOW.

Bodykins, Master Page, though I now be old, and

of the peace, if I see a sword out, my finger itches to make

one. Though we are justices,