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IV. SCENE I.

7 ACT IV.

Page's boufe.

Enter Mrs. Page, Mrs. Quickly, and William.

Mrs. PAGE.

S he at mafter Ford's already, think'ft thou? Quic. Sure, he is by this; or will be presently: but truly, he is very courageous mad about his throwing into the water. Mistress Ford defires you to come fuddenly.

Mrs. Page. I'll be with her by and by; I'll but bring my young man here to school. Look, where his master comes; 'tis a playing-day, I fee.

Enter Evans.

How now, Sir Hugh? no fchool to-day? Eva. No; mafter Slender is let the boys leave to play.

Quic. Bleffing on his heart!

Mrs. Page. Sir Hugh, my husband says, my son profits nothing in the world at his book; I pray you, afk him fome queftions in his Accidence.

Eva. Come hither, William ;-hold up your head;

-come.

Mrs. Page. Come on, firrah; hold up your head. Anfwer your maiter, be not afraid.

Eva. William, how many numbers is in nouns?
Will. Two.

Quic. Truly, I thought there had been one number more, because they fay, od's nouns.

This is a very trifling fcene, of no ufe to the plot, and I fhould think of no great delight to the audience; but Shakefpeare bell knew what would please. JOHNSON.

Eva. Peace your tatlings. What is fair, William? Will. Pulcher.

Quix. Poulcats! there are fairer things than poul

cats, fure.

Eva. You are a very fimplicity 'oman; I pray you, peace. What is Lapis, William?

Will. A ftone.

Eva. And what is a ftone, William?
Will. A pebble.

Eva. No, it is Lapis; I pray you, remember in your prain.

Will. Lapis.

Eva. That is a good William: what is he, William, that does lend articles?

Will. Articles are borrow'd of the pronoun; and be thus declin'd, fingulariter, nominativo, hic, hæc, boc. Eva. Nominativo, big, bag, hog; pray you, mark: genitivo, hujus: well, what is your accufative cafe? Will. Accufative, hinc.

Eva. I pray you, have your remembrance, child; accufative, bung, bang, kog.

Quic. Hang hog is Latin for bacon, I warrant you. Eva. Leave your prabbles, 'oman. What is the focative cafe, William?

Will. O, vocativo, O.

Eva. Remember, William; focative is, caret.
Quic. And that's a good root.

Eva. 'Oman, forbear.

Mrs. Page. Peace.

Eva. What is your genitive cafe plural, William? Will. Genitive cafe?

Eva. Ay.

Will. Genitive, horum, barum, borum.

Quic. 'Vengeance of Giney's cafe! fie on her! never

name her, child, if the be a whore.

Eva. For fhame, 'oman.

Quic. You do ill to teach the child fuch words: he eaches him to hick and to hack, which they'll do faft

S 3

enough

enough of themselves; and to call horum: fie upon you!

Eva. 'Oman art thou lunacics? haft thou no understanding for thy cafes, and the numbers of the genders? thou art as foolish chriftian creatures, as I would defires.

Mrs. Page. Pr'ythee, hold thy peace.

Eva. Shew me now, William, fome declenfions of your pronouns.

Will. Forfooth, I have forgot.

Eva. It is, ki, ka, cod; if you forget your kies, your kes, and your cods, you must be preeches. Go your ways and play, go.

Mrs. Page. He is a better scholar than I thought

he was.

Eva. He is a good fprag memory. Farewell, Mrs. Page.

Mrs. Page. Adieu, good Sir Hugh. Get you home, boy. Come, we ftay too long. [Exeunt.

SCENE II.

Changes to Ford's boufe.

Enter Falstaff and Mrs. Ford.

Fal. Mistress Ford, your forrow hath eaten up my fufferance: I fee, you are obfequious in your love, and I profefs requital to a hair's breadth; not only, miftrefs Ford, in the fimple office of love, but in all the accoutrement, complement, and ceremony of it. But are you fure of your husband now?

Mrs. Ford. He's a birding, fweet Sir John.
Mrs. Page. [Within.] What hoa, goffip Ford! what

hoa!

Mrs. Ford. Step into the chamber, Sir John.

[Exit Falstaff.

Enter

Enter Mrs. Page.

Mrs. Page. How now, fweetheart, who's at home besides yourself?

Mrs. Ford. Why, none but mine own people.
Mrs. Page. Indeed?

Mrs. Ford. No, certainly-Speak louder. [Afide.
Mrs. Page. Truly, I am fo glad you have nobody

here.

Mrs. Ford. Why?

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Mrs. Page. Why, woman, your husband is in his old lunes again: he fo takes on yonder with my husband; fo rails against all married mankind; fo curfes all Eve's daughters, of what complexion foever; and fo buffets himself on the forehead, crying, 9 peer-out, peer-out! that any madness I ever yet beheld, feem'd but tameness, civility, and patience, to this distemper he is in now. I am glad the fat knight is not here.

Mrs. Ford. Why, does he talk of him?

Mrs. Page. Of none but him; and swears, he was carried out, the last time he search'd 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 fufpi-, cion but I am glad the knight is not here; now he fhall fee his own foolery.

Mrs. Ford. How near is he, mistress Page?

Mrs. Page. Hard by; at ftreet end, he will be here

anon.

Mrs. Ford, I am undone! the knight is here.

Mrs. Page. Why, then thou art utterly fham'd, and he's but a dead man. What a woman are you?

8 -he fo takes on- -] To take on, which is now used for to grieve, feems to be used by our author for to rage. Perhaps it was applied to any paffion. JOHNSON.

9

feer-out,] That is, appear borns. Shakespeare is at his old lunes. JOHNSON.

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Away with him, away with him; better fhame than murther.

Mrs. Ford. Which way fhould he go? how fhould I bestow him? Shall I put him into the basket again? Enter Falfeff.

Fel. No, I'll come no more i' the basket: may I not go out, ere he come?

Mrs. Page. Alas; three of master Ford's brothers watch the door with piftols, that none should iffue out; otherwife you might flip away ere he came.— But what make you here?

Fal. What fhall I do? I'll creep up into the chimney. Mrs. Ford. There they always ufe to discharge their birding-pieces creep into the kiln-hole.

Fal. Where is it?

Mrs. Ford. He will feek there on my word. Neither prefs, coffer, cheft, trunk, well, vault, but he hath an abftract for the remembrance of fuch places, and goes to them by his note: there is no hiding you in the house.

Fal. I'll go out then.

Mrs. Ford. If you go out in your own femblance, you die, Sir John; unless you go out difguis'd.— How might we difguife him?

Mrs. Page. Alas-the-day, I know not. There is no woman's gown big enough for him; otherwife, he might put on a hat, a muffler, and a kerchief, and fo efcape.

Fal. Good hearts, devife fomething: any extremity, rather than mischief.

Mrs. Ford. My maid's aunt, the fat woman of Brentford, has a gown above.

Mrs. Page. On my word, it will ferve him; fhe's as big as he is and there's her thrum hat, and her muffler too: run up, Sir John.

Mrs. Ford. Go, go, fweet Sir John: miftrefs Page and I will look fome linen for your head.

Mrs.

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