MISTRESS PAGE.
Why, woman, your husband is in his old lunes again. He so takes on yonder with my husband, so rails against all married mankind, so curses all Eve’s daughters, of what complexion soever, and so buffets himself on the forehead, crying “Peer out, peer out!” that any madness I ever yet beheld seemed but tameness, civility, and patience, to this his distemper he is in now. I am glad the fat knight is not here.
MISTRESS FORD.
Why, does he talk of him?
MISTRESS PAGE.
Of none but him, and swears he was carried out, the last time he searched for him, in a basket; protests to my husband he is now here; and hath drawn him and the rest of their company from their sport, to make another experiment of his suspicion. But I am glad the knight is not here. Now he shall see his own foolery.
MISTRESS FORD.
How near is he, Mistress Page?
MISTRESS PAGE.
Hard by, at street end. He will be here anon.
MISTRESS FORD.
I am undone! The knight is here.
MISTRESS PAGE.
Why, then, you are utterly shamed, and he’s but a dead man. What a woman are you! Away with him, away with him! Better shame than murder.
MISTRESS FORD.
Which way should he go? How should I bestow him? Shall I put him into the basket again?
Enter Falstaff.
FALSTAFF.
No, I’ll come no more i’ the basket. May I not go out ere he come?