Mrs. Page.

Come, mother Prat, come give me your hand.

Ford.

I'll Prat her. Out of my door, you witch! [Beats him.] you hag, you baggage, you poulcat, you runnion! out, out, out; I'll conjure you, I'll fortune-tell you.

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.

Ford.

Hang her, witch.

Eva.

By yea and no, I think, the 'oman is a witch indeed: I like not when a 'oman has a great peard; I spy a great peard under her muffler.

Ford.

Will you follow, gentlemen? I beseech you, follow; see but the issue of my jealousie; if I cry out thus upon no trail, never trust me when I open again.

Page.

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

Mrs. Page.

Trust me, he beat him most pitifully.

Mrs. Ford.

Nay, by th' 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.

Mrs. Ford.

Shall we tell our husbands how we have served him?

Mrs. Page.

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

Mrs. Ford.

I'll warrant, they'll have him publickly sham'd; and, methinks, there would be no period 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.