Mrs. Page. 
He, he; I can never hit on’s name.  There is such a league between
my good man and he!  Is your wife at home indeed?

Ford. 
Indeed she is.

Mrs. Page. 
By your leave, sir:  I am sick till I see her.

[Exeunt Mrs. Page and Robin.]

Ford.  Has Page any brains?  Hath he any eyes?  Hath he any thinking?  Sure, they sleep; he hath no use of them.  Why, this boy will carry a letter twenty mile as easy as a cannon will shoot point-blank twelve score.  He pieces out his wife’s inclination; he gives her folly motion and advantage; and now she’s going to my wife, and Falstaff’s boy with her.  A man may hear this shower sing in the wind:  and Falstaff’s boy with her!  Good plots!  They are laid; and our revolted wives share damnation together.  Well; I will take him, then torture my wife, pluck the borrowed veil of modesty from the so seeming Mistress Page, divulge Page himself for a secure and wilful Actaeon; and to these violent proceedings all my neighbours shall cry aim. [Clock strikes] The clock gives me my cue, and my assurance bids me search; there I shall find Falstaff.  I shall be rather praised for this than mocked; for it is as positive as the earth is firm that Falstaff is there.  I will go.

[Enter page, shallow, slender, host, sir Hugh Evans, caius, and Rugby.]

Shallow, page, &c. 
Well met, Master Ford.

Ford. 
Trust me, a good knot; I have good cheer at home, and I pray you
all go with me.

Shallow. 
I must excuse myself, Master Ford.

Slender. 
And so must I, sir; we have appointed to dine with Mistress Anne,
and I would not break with her for more money than I’ll speak of.

Shallow. 
We have lingered about a match between Anne Page and my cousin
Slender, and this day we shall have our answer.

Slender. 
I hope I have your good will, father Page.

Page. 
You have, Master Slender; I stand wholly for you.  But my wife,
Master doctor, is for you altogether.

Caius. 
Ay, be-gar; and de maid is love-a me:  my nursh-a Quickly tell me
so mush.

Host. What say you to young Master Fenton?  He capers, he dances, he has eyes of youth, he writes verses, he speaks holiday, he smells April and May; he will carry ’t, he will carry ’t; ’tis in his buttons; he will carry ’t.

Page.  Not by my consent, I promise you.  The gentleman is of no having:  he kept company with the wild Prince and Pointz; he is of too high a region, he knows too much.  No, he shall not knit a knot in his fortunes with the finger of my substance; if he take her, let him take her simply; the wealth I have waits on my consent, and my consent goes not that way.