SCENE VIII.
Enter Falstaff.
Fal.
Have I caught thee, my heav'nly jewel? why,
now let me die; for I have liv'd long enough: this is
the period of my ambition: O this blessed hour!
Mrs. Ford.
O sweet Sir John?
Fal.
Mrs. Ford, I cannot cog; I cannot prate, mistress
Ford: now shall I sin in my wish. I would, thy
husband were dead; I'll speak it before the best lord, I
would make thee my lady.
Mrs. Ford.
I your lady, Sir John? alas, I should
be a pitiful lady.
Fal.
Let the Court of France shew me such another;
I see how thine eye would emulate the diamond;
thou hast the right arched bent of the brow, 5 note
that
becomes the ship-tire, the tire-vailant, or any 'tire of
Venetian admittance.
-- 304 --
Mrs. Ford.
A plain kerchief, Sir John: my brows
become nothing else, nor that well neither.
-- 305 --
Fal.
Thou art a traytor to say so; thou would'st
make an absolute Courtier; and the firm fixure of thy
foot would give an excellent motion to thy gate, in a
semi-circled farthingale. I see what thou wert; if fortune
thy foe were not, nature is thy friend: come,
thou canst not hide it.
Mrs. Ford.
Believe me, there's no such thing in me.
Fal.
What made me love thee? let that persuade
thee, there's something extraordinary in thee. Come,
I cannot cog, and say, thou art this and that, like
a-many of these lisping haw-thorn buds, that come
like women in mens apparel, and smell like Bucklers-Bury
in simpling time; I cannot: but I love thee,
none but thee; and thou deservest it.
Mrs. Ford.
Do not betray me, Sir; I fear you love
mistress Page.
Fal.
Thou might'st as well say, I love to walk by
the Counter-gate, which is as hateful to me as the reek
of a lime-kiln.
Mrs. Ford.
Well, heav'n knows how I love you,
and you shall one day find it.
Fal.
Keep in that mind; I'll deserve it.
Mrs. Ford.
Nay, I must tell you, so you do; or
else I could not be in that mind.
Rob. [within.]
Mistress Ford, mistress Ford, here's
mistress Page at the door, sweating, and blowing, and
looking wildly, and would needs speak with you presently.
Fal.
She shall not see me; I will ensconce me behind
the arras.
Mrs. Ford.
Pray you, do so; she's a very tattling
woman.
[Falstaff hides himself.
-- 306 --
Alexander Pope [1747], The works of Shakespear in eight volumes. The Genuine Text (collated with all the former Editions, and then corrected and emended) is here settled: Being restored from the Blunders of the first Editors, and the Interpolations of the two Last: with A Comment and Notes, Critical and Explanatory. By Mr. Pope and Mr. Warburton (Printed for J. and P. Knapton, [and] S. Birt [etc.], London) [word count] [S11301].
