Shallow. 
Have with you, mine host.

Page. 
I have heard the Frenchman hath good skill in his rapier.

Shallow.  Tut, sir!  I could have told you more.  In these times you stand on distance, your passes, stoccadoes, and I know not what:  ’tis the heart, Master Page; ’tis here, ’tis here.  I have seen the time with my long sword I would have made you four tall fellows skip like rats.

Host.
Here, boys, here, here!  Shall we wag?

Page. 
Have with you.  I had rather hear them scold than fight.

[Exeunt host, shallow, and page.]

Ford.  Though Page be a secure fool, and stands so firmly on his wife’s frailty, yet I cannot put off my opinion so easily.  She was in his company at Page’s house, and what they made there I know not.  Well, I will look further into ’t; and I have a disguise to sound Falstaff.  If I find her honest, I lose not my labour; if she be otherwise, ’tis labour well bestowed.

[Exit.]

Scene 2.  A room in the Garter Inn.

[Enter Falstaff and pistol.]

Falstaff. 
I will not lend thee a penny.

Pistol. 
Why then, the world’s mine oyster,
Which I with sword will open. 
I will retort the sum in equipage.

Falstaff.  Not a penny.  I have been content, sir, you should lay my countenance to pawn; I have grated upon my good friends for three reprieves for you and your coach-fellow, Nym; or else you had looked through the grate, like a geminy of baboons.  I am damned in hell for swearing to gentlemen my friends you were good soldiers and tall fellows; and when Mistress Bridget lost the handle of her fan, I took ’t upon mine honour thou hadst it not.

Pistol. 
Didst not thou share?  Hadst thou not fifteen pence?

Falstaff.  Reason, you rogue, reason.  Thinkest thou I’ll endanger my soul gratis?  At a word, hang no more about me, I am no gibbet for you:  go:  a short knife and a throng!—­to your manor of Picht-hatch! go.  You’ll not bear a letter for me, you rogue!—­you stand upon your honour!—­Why, thou unconfinable baseness, it is as much as I can do to keep the terms of my honour precise.  I, I, I myself sometimes, leaving the fear of God on the left hand, and hiding mine honour in my necessity, am fain to shuffle, to hedge, and to lurch; and yet you, rogue, will ensconce your rags, your cat-a-mountain looks, your red-lattice phrases, and your bold-beating oaths, under the shelter of your honour!  You will not do it, you!

Pistol. 
I do relent; what wouldst thou more of man?

[Enter Robin.]

Robin. 
Sir, here’s a woman would speak with you.

Falstaff. 
Let her approach.

[Enter mistress quickly.]

Quickly. 
Give your worship good morrow.