Mrs. Ford. 
What, hoa, Mistress Page!  Come you and the old woman down; my
husband will come into the chamber.

Ford. 
Old woman? what old woman’s that?

Mrs. Ford. 
Why, it is my maid’s aunt of Brainford.

Ford.  A witch, a quean, an old cozening quean!  Have I not forbid her my house?  She comes of errands, does she?  We are simple men; we do not know what’s brought to pass under the profession of fortune-telling.  She works by charms, by spells, by the figure, and such daubery as this is, beyond our element.  We know nothing.  Come down, you witch, you hag you; come down, I say!

Mrs. Ford. 
Nay, good sweet husband!  Good gentlemen, let him not strike the
old woman.

[Re-enter Falstaff in woman’s clothes, led by mistress page.]

Mrs. Page. 
Come, Mother Prat; come, give me your hand.

Ford. 
I’ll prat her.—­[Beats him.] Out of my door, you witch, you rag,
you baggage, you polecat, you ronyon!  Out, out!  I’ll conjure you,
I’ll fortune-tell you.

[Exit Falstaff.]

Mrs. Page. 
Are you not ashamed?  I think you have killed the poor woman.

Mrs. Ford. 
Nay, he will do it.  ’Tis a goodly credit for you.

Ford. 
Hang her, witch!

Evans. 
By yea and no, I think the ’oman is a witch indeed; I like not when
a ’oman has a great peard; I spy a great peard under her muffler.

Ford.  Will you follow, gentlemen?  I beseech you follow; see but the issue of my jealousy; if I cry out thus upon no trail, never trust me when I open again.

Page. 
Let’s obey his humour a little further.  Come, gentlemen.

[Exeunt ford, page, shallow, caius, and Evans.]

Mrs. Page. 
Trust me, he beat him most pitifully.

Mrs. Ford. 
Nay, by the mass, that he did not; he beat him most unpitifully
methought.

Mrs. Page. 
I’ll have the cudgel hallowed and hung o’er the altar; it hath
done meritorious service.

Mrs. Ford. 
What think you?  May we, with the warrant of womanhood and the
witness of a good conscience, pursue him with any further revenge?

Mrs. Page. 
The spirit of wantonness is sure scared out of him; if the devil
have him not in fee-simple, with fine and recovery, he will never,
I think, in the way of waste, attempt us again.

Mrs. Ford. 
Shall we tell our husbands how we have served him?

Mrs. Page.  Yes, by all means; if it be but to scrape the figures out of your husband’s brains.  If they can find in their hearts the poor unvirtuous fat knight shall be any further afflicted, we two will still be the ministers.