Evans. 
As I am a Christians soul, now, look you, this is the place
appointed.  I’ll be judgment by mine host of the Garter.

Host.
Peace, I say, Gallia and Gaullia; French and Welsh, soul-curer
and body-curer!

Caius. 
Ay, dat is very good; excellent!

Host. Peace, I say!  Hear mine host of the Garter.  Am I politic? am I subtle? am I a Machiavel?  Shall I lose my doctor?  No; he gives me the potions and the motions.  Shall I lose my parson, my priest, my Sir Hugh?  No; he gives me the proverbs and the no-verbs.  Give me thy hand, terrestrial; so;—­give me thy hand, celestial; so.  Boys of art, I have deceived you both; I have directed you to wrong places; your hearts are mighty, your skins are whole, and let burnt sack be the issue.  Come, lay their swords to pawn.  Follow me, lads of peace; follow, follow, follow.

Shallow. 
Trust me, a mad host!—­Follow, gentlemen, follow.

Slender.
[Aside] O, sweet Anne Page!

[Exeunt shallow, slender, page, and host.]

Caius. 
Ha, do I perceive dat?  Have you make-a de sot of us, ha, ha?

Evans.  This is well; he has made us his vlouting-stog.  I desire you that we may be friends; and let us knog our prains together to be revenge on this same scall, scurvy, cogging companion, the host of the Garter.

Caius. 
By gar, with all my heart.  He promise to bring me where is Anne
Page; by gar, he deceive me too.

Evans. 
Well, I will smite his noddles.  Pray you follow.

[Exeunt.]

Scene 2.  A street in Windsor.

[Enter mistress page and Robin.]

Mrs. Page.  Nay, keep your way, little gallant:  you were wont to be a follower, but now you are a leader.  Whether had you rather lead mine eyes, or eye your master’s heels?

Robin. 
I had rather, forsooth, go before you like a man than follow him
like a dwarf.

Mrs. Page. 
O! you are a flattering boy:  now I see you’ll be a courtier.

[Enter ford.]

Ford. 
Well met, Mistress Page.  Whither go you?

Mrs. Page. 
Truly, sir, to see your wife.  Is she at home?

Ford. 
Ay; and as idle as she may hang together, for want of company. 
I think, if your husbands were dead, you two would marry.

Mrs. Page. 
Be sure of that—­two other husbands.

Ford. 
Where had you this pretty weathercock?

Mrs. Page. 
I cannot tell what the dickens his name is my husband had him of. 
What do you call your knight’s name, sirrah?

Robin. 
Sir John Falstaff.

Ford. 
Sir John Falstaff!