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, mistress Ford, in the simple office of love, but in all the accoutrement, complement, 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.

Mrs. Page.

How now, sweetheart? 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 so glad you have nobody here.

Mrs. Ford.

Why?

Mrs. Page.

Why, woman, your husband is in his old lunes^{4 note} again: ^{5 note}he so takes on yonder with my husband; so rails against all married mankind; so curses all Eve's daughters, of what complexion soever; and so buffets himself on the forehead, crying, ^{6 note}Peer-out, peer-out!9Q0143 that any madness, I ever yet beheld, seem'd but tameness, civility, and patience, to this distemper he is in now: 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 search'd 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 glad the knight is not here; now he shall see his own foolery.

Mrs. Ford.

How near is he, mistress Page.

Mrs. Page.

Hard by; at street end; he will be here anon.

Mrs. Ford.

I am undone!—the knight is here.

Mrs. Page.

Why, then thou art utterly sham'd, and he's but a dead man. What a woman are you?— Away with him, away with him; better shame than murther.

Mrs. Ford.

Which way should he go? how should I bestow him? Shall I put him into the basket again?

Fal.

No, I'll come no more i' the basket: May I not go out, ere he come?

Mrs. Page.

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?9Q0144

Fal.

What shall I do? I'll creep up into the chimney.

Mrs. Ford.

There they always use to discharge their birding-pieces: creep into the kiln-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^{7 note} 9Q0145 for the remembrance of such places, and goes to them by his note: There is no hiding you in the house.

Fal.

I'll go out then.

Mrs. Ford.

If you go out in your own semblance, you die, sir John; unless you go out disguis'd— 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 hearts, devise something: any extremity, rather than a mischief.

Mrs. Ford.

My maid's aunt, the fat woman of Brentford, has a gown above.

Mrs. Page.

On my word, it will serve him; she's as big as he is: and there's her thrum hat, and her muffler too^{8 note}

Mrs. Ford.

Go, go, sweet sir John: mistress 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.

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.

Mrs. Page.

Heaven guide him to thy husband's cudgel; and the devil guide his cudgel afterwards!

Mrs. Ford.

But is my husband coming?

Mrs. Page.

Ay, in good sadness, is he; and talks of the basket too, howsoever 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.

Mrs. Page.

Hang him, dishonest varlet! we cannot misuse him enough.

Mrs. Ford.

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.

1 Serv.

Come, come, take up.

2 Serv.

Pray heaven, it be not full of the knight again.

1 Serv.

I hope not; I had as lief bear so much lead.

Ford.

Ay, but if it prove true, master Page, have you any way then to unfool me again?—Set down the basket, villain:—Somebody call my wife:—Youth in a basket9Q0146!—Oh, you panderly rascals! there's a knot, a gang, a pack, a conspiracy, against me: Now shall the devil be sham'd. What! wife, I say! come, come forth; behold what honest cloaths you send forth to bleaching.

Page.

Why, this passes^{9 note}

Eva.

Why, this is lunatics! this is mad as a mad dog!

Shal.

Indeed, master Ford, this is not well; indeed.

Enter Mrs. Ford.

Ford.

So say I too, sir.—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.

Heaven be my witness, you do, if you suspect me in any dishonesty.

Ford.

Well said, brazen-face; hold it out.—Come forth, sirrah.

Page.

This passes.

Mrs. Ford.

Are you not asham'd? let the cloaths alone.

Ford.

I shall find you anon.

Eva.

'Tis unreasonable! Will you take up your wife's cloaths? come away.

Ford.

Empty the basket, I say.

Mrs. Ford.

Why, man, why,—

Ford.

Master Page, as I am a man, there was none convey'd 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; ^{1 note}

Eva.

Master Ford, you must pray, and not follow the imaginations of your own heart: this is jealousies.

Ford.

Well, he's 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 search'd a hollow wall-nut for his wife's leman^{2 note}. Satisfy me once more, once more search with me.

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? We are simple men; we do not know what's brought to pass under the profession of fortune-telling. She works by charms^{3 note}, by spells, by the figure, and such daubery^{4 note} as this is: beyond our element: we know nothing.—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.

Mrs. Page.

Come, mother Prat, come, give me your hand.

Ford.

I'll prat her:—Out of my doors, you witch! [Beats him.] you hag, you baggage, you poulcat,

you ^{5 note}

Mrs. Page.

Are you not asham'd? I think, you have kill'd the poor woman.

Mrs. Ford.

Nay, he will do it:—'Tis a goodly credit for you.

Mrs. Ford.

Hang her, witch!

Eva.

By yea and no, I think, the 'oman is a witch indeed: I like not when a 'omans has a great peard^{6 note}

Ford.

Will you follow, gentlemen? I beseech you, follow; see but the issue of my jealousy: if I ^{8 note}

Page.

Let's obey his humour a little further: Come, gentlemen.

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 hallow'd, and hung o'er the altar; it hath done meritorious service.

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, scar'd out of him; if the devil have him not in fee-simple, with fine and recovery, he will never, I think, in the way of waste, attempt us again^{9 note}.

Mrs. Ford.

Shall we tell our husbands how we have served him?

Mrs. Page.

Yea, by all means; if it be but to scrape the figures out of your husband's brains. If they can find in their hearts, the poor unvirtuous fat knight shall be any further afflicted, we two will be still the ministers.

Mrs. Ford.

I'll warrant, they'll have him publickly sham'd: and, methinks, there would be no period^{1 note} to the jest, should he not be publickly sham'd.

Mrs. Page.

Come, to the forge with it then, shape it: I would not have things cool.

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