FALSTAFF.
God-a-mercy! so should I be sure to be heartburnt.
Enter the Hostess.
How now, Dame Partlet the hen, have you enquired yet who picked my pocket?
HOSTESS.
Why, Sir John, what do you think, Sir John, do you think I keep thieves in my house? I have searched, I have enquired, so has my husband, man by man, boy by boy, servant by servant. The tithe of a hair was never lost in my house before.
FALSTAFF.
Ye lie, hostess. Bardolph was shaved and lost many a hair, and I’ll be sworn my pocket was picked. Go to, you are a woman, go.
HOSTESS.
Who, I? No; I defy thee: God’s light, I was never called so in mine own house before.
FALSTAFF.
Go to, I know you well enough.
HOSTESS.
No, Sir John, you do not know me, Sir John. I know you, Sir John, you owe me money, Sir John, and now you pick a quarrel to beguile me of it. I bought you a dozen of shirts to your back.
FALSTAFF.
Dowlas, filthy dowlas. I have given them away to bakers’ wives; and they have made bolters of them.
HOSTESS.
Now, as I am a true woman, holland of eight shillings an ell. You owe money here besides, Sir John, for your diet and by-drinkings, and money lent you, four-and-twenty pound.