Pistol. 
I ken the wight; he is of substance good.

Falstaff. 
My honest lads, I will tell you what I am about.

Pistol. 
Two yards, and more.

Falstaff.  No quips now, Pistol.  Indeed, I am in the waist two yards about; but I am now about no waste; I am about thrift.  Briefly, I do mean to make love to Ford’s wife; I spy entertainment in her; she discourses, she carves, she gives the leer of invitation; I can construe the action of her familiar style; and the hardest voice of her behaviour, to be Englished rightly, is ‘I am Sir John Falstaff’s.’

Pistol. 
He hath studied her will, and translated her will out of honesty into
English.

Nym. 
The anchor is deep; will that humour pass?

Falstaff. 
Now, the report goes she has all the rule of her husband’s purse; he
hath a legion of angels.

Pistol. 
As many devils entertain; and ‘To her, boy,’ say I.

Nym. 
The humour rises; it is good; humour me the angels.

Falstaff.  I have writ me here a letter to her; and here another to Page’s wife, who even now gave me good eyes too, examined my parts with most judicious oeillades; sometimes the beam of her view gilded my foot, sometimes my portly belly.

Pistol. 
Then did the sun on dunghill shine.

Nym. 
I thank thee for that humour.

Falstaff.  O! she did so course o’er my exteriors with such a greedy intention that the appetite of her eye did seem to scorch me up like a burning-glass.  Here’s another letter to her:  she bears the purse too; she is a region in Guiana, all gold and bounty.  I will be cheator to them both, and they shall be exchequers to me; they shall be my East and West Indies, and I will trade to them both.  Go, bear thou this letter to Mistress Page; and thou this to Mistress Ford.  We will thrive, lads, we will thrive.

Pistol. 
Shall I Sir Pandarus of Troy become,
And by my side wear steel? then Lucifer take all!

Nym. 
I will run no base humour.  Here, take the humour-letter; I will keep
the haviour of reputation.

Falstaff.
[To Robin] Hold, sirrah; bear you these letters tightly;
Sail like my pinnace to these golden shores. 
Rogues, hence, avaunt! vanish like hailstones, go;
Trudge, plod away o’ hoof; seek shelter, pack! 
Falstaff will learn the humour of this age;
French thrift, you rogues; myself, and skirted page.

[Exeunt Falstaff and Robin.]

Pistol. 
Let vultures gripe thy guts! for gourd and fullam holds,
And high and low beguile the rich and poor;
Tester I’ll have in pouch when thou shalt lack,
Base Phrygian Turk!

Nym. 
I have operations in my head which be humours of revenge.