Quickly. 
Will I? i’ faith, that we will; and I will tell your worship more of
the wart the next time we have confidence; and of other wooers.

Fenton. 
Well, farewell; I am in great haste now.

Quickly.  Farewell to your worship.—­[Exit Fenton.] Truly, an honest gentleman; but Anne loves him not; for I know Anne’s mind as well as another does.  Out upon ’t, what have I forgot?

[Exit.]

ACT II.

Scene 1.  Before page’s house

[Enter mistress page, with a letter.]

Mrs. Page. 
What! have I scaped love-letters in the holiday-time of my beauty,
and am I now a subject for them?  Let me see.

  ’Ask me no reason why I love you; for though Love use Reason
   for his precisian, he admits him not for his counsellor.  You
   are not young, no more am I; go to, then, there’s sympathy: 
   you are merry, so am I; ha! ha! then there’s more sympathy;
   you love sack, and so do I; would you desire better sympathy? 
   Let it suffice thee, Mistress Page, at the least, if the love
   of soldier can suffice, that I love thee.  I will not say,
   pity me:  ’tis not a soldier-like phrase; but I say, Love me. 
   By me,
      Thine own true knight,
      By day or night,
      Or any kind of light,
      With all his might,
      For thee to fight,
                                   John Falstaff.’

What a Herod of Jewry is this!  O wicked, wicked world!  One that is well-nigh worn to pieces with age to show himself a young gallant.  What an unweighed behaviour hath this Flemish drunkard picked, with the devil’s name! out of my conversation, that he dares in this manner assay me?  Why, he hath not been thrice in my company!  What should I say to him?  I was then frugal of my mirth:—­Heaven forgive me!  Why, I’ll exhibit a bill in the parliament for the putting down of men.  How shall I be revenged on him? for revenged I will be, as sure as his guts are made of puddings.

[Enter mistress ford.]

Mrs. Ford. 
Mistress Page! trust me, I was going to your house.

Mrs. Page. 
And, trust me, I was coming to you.  You look very ill.

Mrs. Ford. 
Nay, I’ll ne’er believe that; I have to show to the contrary.

Mrs. Page. 
Faith, but you do, in my mind.

Mrs. Ford. 
Well, I do, then; yet, I say, I could show you to the contrary. 
O, Mistress Page! give me some counsel.

Mrs. Page. 
What’s the matter, woman?

Mrs. Ford. 
O woman, if it were not for one trifling respect, I could come to
such honour!

Mrs. Page. 
Hang the trifle, woman; take the honour.  What is it?—­Dispense with
trifles;—­what is it?