Mrs. Page.
What, have I scap'd love-letters in the holy-day-time
of my beauty, and am I now a
subject for them? let me see:
Ask me no reason, why I love you; for 1 note
tho' love use
reason for his precisian, he admits him not for his counsellor:
you are not young, no more am I; go to then,
there's sympathy: you are merry, so am I; ha! ha!
then there's more sympathy; you love sack, and so do I;
would you desire better sympathy? let it suffice thee,
mistress Page, at the least if the love of a soldier can
suffice, that I love thee. I will not say, pity me, 'tis
not a soldier-like phrase; but I say, love me:
By me, thine own true Knight, by day or night,
Or any kind of light, with all his might,
For thee to fight.
John Falstaff.
What a Herod of Jewry is this? O wicked, wicked
world! one that is well nigh worn to pieces with age,
to show himself a young gallant! what unweigh'd behaviour
hath this Flemish drunkard pickt, i'th' devil's
-- 272 --
name, out of my conversation, that he dares in this
manner assay me? why, he hath not been thrice in my
company: what should I say to him? I was then frugal
of my mirth, heav'n forgive me: why, 2 note
I'll exhibit
a Bill in the Parliament for the putting down of
Mum: how shall I be reveng'd on him? for reveng'd
I will be, as sure as his guts are made of puddings.
