MISTRESS FORD.
Why, it is my maid’s aunt of Brentford.
FORD.
A witch, a quean, an old cozening quean! Have I not forbid her my house? She comes of errands, does she? We are simple men; we do not know what’s brought to pass under the profession of fortune-telling. She works by charms, by spells, by the figure, and such daubery as this is, beyond our element. We know nothing.—Come down, you witch, you hag, you! Come down, I say!
MISTRESS FORD.
Nay, good sweet husband!—Good gentlemen, let him not strike the old woman.
Enter Falstaff disguised as an old woman, led by Mistress Page.
MISTRESS PAGE.
Come, Mother Prat; come, give me your hand.
FORD.
I’ll prat her. [Beats him.] Out of my door, you witch, you rag, you baggage, you polecat, you runnion! Out, out! I’ll conjure you, I’ll fortune-tell you.
[Exit Falstaff.]
MISTRESS PAGE.
Are you not ashamed? I think you have killed the poor woman.
MISTRESS FORD.
Nay, he will do it. ’Tis a goodly credit for you.
FORD.
Hang her, witch!