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 accoustrement, 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, sweet heart, who's at home besides your self?

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 no body here.

Mrs. Ford.

Why?

Mrs. Page.

Why, woman, your husband is in his old lunes again; 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, peer-out, peer-out! 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 carry'd 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's 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?

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