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 cheaters 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’ th’ hoof, seek shelter, pack!
Falstaff will learn the humour of this age:
French thrift, you rogues—myself and skirted page.
[Exeunt Falstaff and Robin.]