FALSTAFF.
Good hearts, devise something. Any extremity rather than a mischief.
MISTRESS FORD.
My maid’s aunt, the fat woman of Brentford, has a gown above.
MISTRESS PAGE.
On my word, it will serve him. She’s as big as he is. And there’s her thrummed hat, and her muffler too.—Run up, Sir John.
MISTRESS FORD.
Go, go, sweet Sir John. Mistress Page and I will look some linen for your head.
MISTRESS PAGE.
Quick, quick! We’ll come dress you straight; put on the gown the while.
[Exit Falstaff.]
MISTRESS FORD.
I would my husband would meet him in this shape. He cannot abide the old woman of Brentford; he swears she’s a witch, forbade her my house, and hath threatened to beat her.
MISTRESS PAGE.
Heaven guide him to thy husband’s cudgel and the devil guide his cudgel afterwards!
MISTRESS FORD.
But is my husband coming?
MISTRESS PAGE.
Ay, in good sadness is he, and talks of the basket too, howsoever he hath had intelligence.