Ford.
Fal.
Mistress Ford, your sorrow hath eaten up
my sufferance; I see you are obsequious in
your love, and I profess requital to a hair's breadth; not
only, Mrs. Ford, in the simple office of love, but in the
accoustrement, compliment, and ceremony of it. But
are you sure of your husband, now?
Mrs. Ford.
He's a birding, sweet Sir John.
Mrs. Page. [within]
What, hoa, gossip Ford! what,
hoa!
Mrs. Ford.
Step into the chamber, Sir John.
[Exit Falstaff.
Enter Mistress Page.
Mrs. Page.
How now, sweet heart, who's at home, besides
yourself?
Mrs. Ford.
Why none but mine own people.
Mrs. Page.
Indeed?
Mrs. Ford.
No, certainly—Speak louder.
Mrs. Page.
Truly I am glad you have nobody here.
Mrs. Ford.
Why?
Mrs. Page.
Why, woman, your husband is in his old
lunes, again; he so takes on, yonder, with my husband,
so rails against all married mankind; I am glad the fat
knight is not here.
Mrs. Ford.
Why, does he talk of him?
Mrs. Page.
Of none but him, and swears he was carried
out, the last time he searched for him, in a basket;
protests to my husband he is now here; and hath drawn
him and the rest of their company from their sport, to
make another experiment of his suspicion; but I am
-- 56 --
glad the knight is not here; now he shall see his own
foolery.
Mrs. Ford.
How near is he, Mrs. Page?
Mrs. Page.
Hard by, at street's end, he will be here
anon.
Mrs. Ford.
I am undone: the knight is here.
Mrs. Page.
Why then thou art utterly shamed, and
he's but a dead man. What a woman are you! away
with him, away with him: better shame than murder.
Mrs. Ford.
Which way should he go? How should I
bestow him, shall I put him into the basket, again?
Enter Falstaff.
Fal.
No, I'll come no more i'th' basket:
May I not go out, ere he come?
Mrs. Page.
Alas, alas, three of Master Ford's brothers
watch the door, with pistols, that none should issue
out; otherwise you might slip away, ere he came: but
what make you here?
Fal.
I'll creep up into the chimney.
Mrs. Ford.
There they always used to discharge their
birding pieces; creep into the kill-hole.
Fal.
Where is it?
Mrs. Ford.
He will seek there, on my word; neither
press, coffer, chest, trunk, well, vault, but he hath an
abstract for the remembrance of such places, and goes
to them by his note; there is no hiding you in the
house.
Fal.
Ill go out, then.
Mrs. Ford.
If you go out in your own semblance, you
die, Sir John, unless you go out disguised. How might
we disguise him?
Mrs. Page.
Alas the day, I know not: there is no
woman's gown big enough for him, otherwise he might
put on a hat, a muffler, and a kerchief, and so escape.
Fal.
Good heart, devise something; any extremity,
rather than mischief.
Mrs. Ford.
My maid's aunt, the fat woman of Brentford,
has a gown above.
-- 57 --
Mrs. Page.
On my word, it will serve him; she's as
big as he is; and there's her thrumb hat, and her muffler
too. Run up, Sir John.
Mrs. Ford.
Go, go, sweet Sir John; Mrs. Page and I
will look some linen for your head.
Mrs. Page.
Quick, quick, we'll come dress you
straight; put on the gown the while.
[Exit Falstaff.
Mrs. Ford.
I would my husband would meet him in
this shape: he cannot abide the old woman of Brentford;
he swears she's a witch, forbade her my house, and hath
threatened to beat her. But is my husband coming?
Mrs. Page.
Ay, in good sadness is he, and talks of
the basket too, however he hath had intelligence.
Mrs. Ford.
We'll try that; for I'll appoint my men
to carry the basket again, to meet him at the door with
it, as they did last time.
Mrs. Page.
Nay, but he'll be here, presently; let's go
dress him like the witch of Brentford.
Mrs. Ford.
I'll first direct my men what they shall do
with the basket; go up, I'll bring linen for him, straight.
[Exit Mrs. Page.
Mrs. Ford.
Here, John, Robert. Go, sirs, take the
basket again on your shoulders; your master is hard at
door; if he bid you set it down, obey him; quickly,
dispatch.
[Exit Mrs. Ford.
Servants take up the basket.
Enter Ford, Shallow, Page, Caius, and Evans.
Ford.
Ay, but if it prove true, Master Page, have you
any way then to unfool me again? Set down the basket,
villains; somebody, call my wife: youth in a basket!
Oh you pandarly rascals, there's a knot, a gang, a pack,
a conspiracy against me! now shall the devil be shamed.
What, wife! I say; come, come forth, behold what honest
cloaths you send forth to bleaching.
Page.
Why this is extravagance, Master Ford; you
are not to go loose, any longer; you must be pinioned.
Eva.
Why this is lunatics; this is mad as a mad
dog.
-- 58 --
Shal.
Indeed, Master Ford, this is not well, indeed.
Ford.
So say I too, sir. [Ent. Mrs. Ford.] Come hither,
Mistress Ford, Mistress Ford, the honest woman, the
modest wife, the virtuous creature, that hath the jealous
fool to her husband: I suspect without cause, mistress,
do I?
Mrs. Ford.
Heav'n be my witness, you do, if you
suspect me in any dishonesty.
Ford.
Well said, brazen-face, hold it out: come forth,
sirrah.
[Pulls the cloaths out of the basket.
Mrs. Ford.
Are you not ashamed? Let the cloaths
alone.
Ford.
I shall find you, anon.
Eva.
'Tis unreasonable; will you take up your
wife's* note cloaths? Come away.
Ford.
Empty the basket, I say.
Mrs. Ford.
Why, man, why?
Ford.
Master Page, as I am a man, there was one conveyed
out of my house, yesterday, in this basket; why
may not he be there again? In my house I am sure he
is; my intelligence is true, my jealousy is reasonable,
pluck me out all the linen.
Mrs. Ford.
If you find a man there, he shall die a
flea's death.
Page.
Here's no man.
Shal.
By my fidelity, this is not well, Master Ford;
this wrongs you.
Eva.
Master Ford, you must pray, and not follow the
imaginations of your own heart; this is jealousies.
Ford.
Well, he is not here I seek for.
Page.
No, nor no where else, but in your brain.
Ford.
Help to search my house, this one time; if I
find not what I seek, shew no colour for my extremity;
let me for ever be your table-sport; let them say of me,
“as jealous as Ford, that searched a hollow walnut for
his wife's love.” Satisfy me, once more, once more
search with me.
-- 59 --
Mrs. Ford.
What hoa, Mistress Page! come you and
the old woman down; my husband will come into the
chamber.
Ford.
Old woman! what old woman's that?
Mrs. Ford.
Why, it is my maid's aunt of Brentford.
Ford.
A witch, a quean, an old cozening quean! have
I not forbid her my house? she comes of errands, does
she? Come down, you witch, you hag you, come down,
I say.
Mrs. Ford.
Nay, good sweet husband; good gentlemen,
let him not strike the old woman.
Enter Falstaff, in womens cloaths* note.
Mrs. Page.
Come, mother Prat, come, give me your
hand.
Ford.
I'll Prat her, out of my door, you witch, [beats
him]—you hag, you baggage, you polecat, out, out,
out; I'll conjure you, I'll fortune-tell you.
[Exit Falstaff.
Mrs. Page.
Are you not ashamed?
I think you have kill'd the poor woman.
Mrs. Ford.
Nay, he will do it; 'tis a goodly credit
for you.
Ford.
Hang her, witch.
Eva.
By yea and no, I think the 'oman is a witch, indeed:
I like not when a 'oman has a great peard: I spy
a great peard under her muffler.
Ford.
Will you follow, gentlemen? I beseech you
follow; see but the issue of my jealousy; if I cry out
thus upon no trail, never trust me when I open again.
Page.
Let's obey his humour, a little further:
Come, gentlemen.
[Exeunt.
Mrs. Page.
Trust me, he beat him most pitifully.
Mrs. Ford.
Nay, by the mass, that he did not; he
beat him most unpitifully, methought.
Mrs. Page.
I'll have the cudgel hallowed, and hung
o'er the altar; it hath done meritorious service.
-- 60 --
Mrs. Ford.
What think you? May we, with the warrant
of woman-hood, and the witness of a good conscience,
pursue him with any further revenge?
Mrs. Page.
The spirit of wantonness is sure scared
out of him.
Mrs. Ford.
Shall we tell our husbands how we have
served him?
Mrs. Page.
Yes, by all means; if it be but to scrape
the figures out of your husband's brain. If they can
find in their hearts the poor unvirtuous fat knight shall
be any farther afflicted, we two will still be the ministers.
Mrs. Ford.
I'll warrant, they'll have him publicly
shamed; and methink there would be no period to the
jest, should he not be publicly shamed.
Mrs. Page.
Come, to the forge with it, then shape it.
I would not have things cool.
[Exeunt.
John Bell [1774], Bell's Edition of Shakespeare's Plays, As they are now performed at the Theatres Royal in London; Regulated from the Prompt Books of each House By Permission; with Notes Critical and Illustrative; By the Authors of the Dramatic Censor (Printed for John Bell... and C. Etherington [etc.], York) [word count] [S10401].
