Fal.

Mistress Ford, your sorrow hath eaten up my sufferance; I see you are obsequious in your love, and I profess requital to a hairs 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 th'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 lines 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 fore-head, 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 streets 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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