Ford.
What a damn'd Epicurean rascal is this! my
heart is ready to crack with impatience. Who says,
this is improvident jealousie? my wife hath sent to
him, the hour is fixt, 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 the 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 Welchman with my cheese, an Irishman with
my Aquavitæ 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. Heav'n be prais'd
for my jealousie! 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!