Quic.

By your leave—I cry you mercy. Give your worship good morrow.

Fal.

Take away these challices: go brew me a pottle of sack finely.

Bard.

With eggs, Sir?

Fal.

Simple of itself; I'll no pullet-sperm in my brewage—How now?

Quic.

Marry, Sir, I come to your worship from mistress Ford.

Fal.

Mistress Ford? I have had Ford enough; I was thrown into the Ford; I have my belly full of Ford.

Quic.

Alas the day! good heart, that was not her fault: she does so take on with her men; they mistook their erection.

Fal.

So did I mine, to build on a foolish woman's promise.

Quic.

Well, she laments, Sir, for it, that it would yern your heart to see it. Her husband goes this morning a birding; she desires you once more to come to her between eight and nine. I must carry her word quickly; she'll make you amends, I warrant you.

Fal.

Well, I will visit her; tell her so, and bid her think, what a man is: let her consider his frailty, and then judge of my merit.

Quic.

I will tell her.

Fal.

Do so. Between nine and ten, say'st thou?

Quic.

Eight and nine, Sir.

Fal.

Well, be gone; I will not miss her.

Quic.

Peace be with you, Sir.

Fal.

I marvel, I hear not of master Brook; he sent me word to stay within: I like his mony well. Oh, here he comes.