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Raife up the Organs of her Fantafie,
Search Windor Caftle, Elves, within and out.
Eva. Pray you lock Hand in Hand, your felves in order fet: And twenty Glow-worms fhall our Lant-horns be To guide our Measure round about the Tree. But ftay, I fmell a Man of middle Earth.
Fal. Heav'ns defend me from the Welch Fairy, Left he transform me to a piece of Cheese.
Pift. Vild Worm, thou waft o'er-look'd even in thy Birth.
Quic. With Trial-fire touch his Finger end;
Pift. A Trial, come.
[They burn him with their Tapers, and pinch him. Eva. Come, will this Wood take fire?
Fal. Oh, oh, oh.
Quic. Corrupt, corrupt, and tainted in Defire;
Fie on fimple Phantafie: Fie on Luft and Luxury:
As Thoughts do blow them higher and higher.
Mrs. Page. I pray you come, hold up the Jeft no Jeft no higher, Now, good Sir. John, how like you Windfor Wives? See you thefe Husbands? Do not these fair Oaks Become the Foreft better than the Town?
Ford. Now, Sir, who's a Cuckold now.
Mr. Broom, Falstaff's a Knave, a cuckoldy Knave,
And, Mafter Broom, he hath enjoy'd nothing of Ford
Mrs. Ford. Sir John, we have had ill Luck; we could never meet. I will never take you for my Love again, but I will always count you my Deer.
Fal. I do begin to perceive that I am made an Afs.
I was three or four times in the Thought they were not Fairies, and yet the guiltinefs of my Mind, the fudden furprize of my Powers, drove the grofnefs of the Foppery into a receiv'd Belief, in defpight of the Teeth of all Rhime and Reason, that they were Fairies. See now how Wit may be made a Jack-a-Lent, when 'tis upon ill Imployment.
Eva. Sir John Falstaff, ferve Got, and leave your Defires, and Fairies will not pinfe you.
Ford. Well faid, Fairy Hugh.
Eva. And leave you your Jealouzies too, I pray you. Ford. I will never miftruft my Wife again, 'till thou art able to woo her in good English.
Fal. Have I laid my Brain in the Sun and dry'd it, that it wants Matter to prevent fo grofs o'er-reaching as this? Am I ridden with a Welch Goat too? Shall I have a Coxcomb of Frize? 'Tis time I were choak'd with a piece of toasted Cheese.
Eva. Seefe is not good to give Putter; your Pelly is all
Fal. Seefe and Putter? Have I liv'd to ftand in the taunt of one that makes Fritters of English? This is enough to be the decay of Luft and late-walking through the Realm.
Mrs. Page. Why Sir John, do you think, though we would have thruft Virtue out of our Hearts by the Head and Shoulders, and have given our felves without fcruple to Hell, that ever the Devil could have made you our Delight.
Ford. What, a Hodge-pudding? A Bag of Flax?
Page. Old, cold, wither'd, and of intolerable Entrails?
Page. And as poor as Job?
Ford. And as wicked as his Wife?
Eva. And given to Fornications, and to Taverns, and Sack, and Wine, and Metheglin, and to Drinkings, and Swearings, and Staring? Pribbles and prabbles?
Fal. Well, I am your Theme; you have the Start of me, I am dejected; I am not able to answer the Welch Flannel, Ignorance it felf is a Plummet o'er me, ufe me as you will.
Ford. Marry Sir, we'll bring you to Windfor to one Mr. Broom, that you have cozen'd of Mony, to whom you fhould have been a Pander: Over and above that you have fuffer'd, I think, to repay that Mony will be a biting Af. fliction.
Page. Yet be cheerful, Knight, thou shalt eat a Poffet to Night at my Houfe, where I will defire thee to laugh at
my Wife, that now laughs at thee. Tell her Mr. Slender hath marry'd her Daughter.
Mrs. Page. Doctors doubt that;
If Anne Page be my Daughter, fhe is, by this, Doctor Cains's Wife.
Slen. What hoe! hoe! Father Page!
Page. Son? How now? How now Son,
Have you difpatch'd?
Slen. Difpatch'd? I'll make the best in Gloucester shire know on't; would I were hang'd-la, elfe.
Page. Of what, Son?
Slen. I came yonder at Eaton to marry Mistress Anne Pige, and the's a great lubberly Boy. If it had not been i'th' Church, I would have fwing'd him, or he should have fwing'd me. If I did not think it had been Anne Page, would I might never ftir, and 'tis a Poft-mafter's Boy.
Page. Upon my Life then you took the wrong.
Slen. What need you tell me that? I think fo, when I took a Boy for a Girl: If I had been marry'd to him, for all he was in Woman's Apparel, I would not have had him.
Page. Why, this is your own Folly.
Did not I tell you how you should know my Daughter
Slen. I went to her in green and cry'd Mum, and the cry'd Budget, as Anne and I had appointed, and yet it was not Anne, but a Poft-mafter's Boy.
Mrs. Page. Good George be not angry; I knew of your purpofe, turn'd my Daughter into white, and indeed the is now with the Doctor at the Deanery, and there marry'd. Enter Caius.
Caius. Ver is Mistress Page; by gar I am cozon'd, I ha’ marry'd one Garfoon, a Boe; oon Pefant, by gar. A Boy, it is not Anne Page, by gar, I am cozon'd.
Mrs. Page. Why? Did you take her in white? Cains. Ay be gar, and 'tis a Boy; be gar, I'll raife all Windfor.
Ford. This is ftrange? who hath got the right Anne? Page. My Heart mifgives me; here comes Mr. Fenton. How now Mr. Fenton?
Anne. Pardon, good Father; good my Mother, Pardon. Page. Now Miftrefs,
How chance you went not with Mr. Slender?
Mrs. Page. Why went you not with Mr. Doctor, Maid? Fent. You do amaze her. Hear the Truth of it: You would have marry'd her moft fhamefully, Where there was no proportion held in Love: The Truth is, the and I, long fince contracted, Are now fo fure that nothing can diffolve us. Th' Offence is holy that the hath committed, And this Deceit lofes the name of Craft, Of Difobedience, or unduteous Title; Since therein the doth evitate and fhun A thoufand irreligious curfed Hours Which forced Marriage would have brought upon her. Ford. Stand not amaz'd, here is no Remedy.
In Love, the Heav'ns themselves do guide the State;
Fal. I am glad, tho' you have ta'en a fpecial Stand to frike at me, that your Arrow hath glanc'd."
Page. Well, what Remedy? Fenton, Heav'n give thee Joy; what cannot be efchew'd, muft be embrac'd.
Fal. When Night-dogs run, all forts of Deer are chac'd. Mrs. Page. Well, I will mufe no more further: Mr. Fenton, Heav'n give you many, many merry Days. Good Husband, let us every one go home, And laugh this Sport o'er by a Country Fire, Sir John and all.
Ford. Let it be fo, Sir John:
To Mafter Broom you yet fhall hold your Word;