SCENE I. ACT III. A Field near Frogmore. Enter SIR HUGH EVANS and SIMPLE. Eva. I pray you now, good master Slender's serving-man, and friend Simple by your name, which way have you looked for master Caius, that calls himself Doctor of Physic? Sim. Marry, sir, the pittie-ward,' the park-ward, every way; old Windsor way, and every way but the town way. Eva. I most fehemently desire you, you will also look that way. Sim. I will, sir. Eva. 'Pless my soul! how full of cholers I am, and trempling of mind!-I shall be glad, if he have deceived me:-how melancholies I am!-I will knog his urinals about his knave's costard, when I have good opportunities for the 'ork:-'pless my soul! To shallow rivers, to whose falls3 To shallow [Sings. 'Mercy on me! I have a great dispositions to cry. 1 Recent editors read city-ward. See note on this word in Malone and Boswell's edition. 2 Head. 3 This is a part of a beautiful little pastoral, printed among Shakspeare's Sonnets in 1599; but, in England's Helicon, 1600, it is attributed to Christopher Marlowe, and to it is subjoined an answer, called "The Nymph's Reply," signed Ignoto, which is thought to be the signature of Sir Walter Raleigh. Sir Hugh misrecites the lines in his panic. The reader will be pleased to find them at the end of the play. Melodious birds sing madrigals;— And a thousand vagram posies. Sim. Yonder he is coming this way, Sir Hugh. To shallow rivers, to whose falls Heaven prosper the right!—What weapons is he? Sim. No weapons, sir: There comes my master, master Shallow, and another gentleman from Frogmore, over the stile, this way. Eva. Pray you, give me my gown; or else keep it in your arms. Enter PAGE, SHALLOW, and Slender. Shal. How now, master parson? Good morrow, good Sir Hugh. Keep a gamester from the dice, and a good student from his book, and it is wonderful. Slen. Ah, sweet Anne Page! Page. Save you, good Sir Hugh! Eva. 'Pless you from his mercy sake, all of you! Shal. What! the sword and the word! do you study them both, master parson? Page. And youthful still, in your doublet and hose, this raw rheumatic day? Eva. There is reasons and causes for it. Page. We are come to you, to do a good office, master parson. Eva. Fery well: What is it? Page. Yonder is a most reverend gentleman, who, be like, having received wrong by some person, is at 1 This line is from the old version of the 137th Psalm: "When we did sit in Babylon, The rivers round about, Then the remembrance of Sion The tears for grief burst out." The word rivers in the second line was probably brought to Sir Hugh's thoughts by the line of the madrigal he had just repeated; and in his fright he blends the sacred and profane songs together. most odds with his own gravity and patience, that ever you saw. Shal. I have lived fourscore years and upward; I never heard a man of his place, gravity, and learning, so wide of his own respect. Eva. What is he? Page. I think you know him; master doctor Caius, the renowned French physician. Eva. Got's will, and his passion of my heart! 1 had as lief you would tell me of a mess of porridge. Page. Why? Eva. He has no more knowledge in Hibocrates and Galen, and he is a knave besides; a cowardly knave, as you would desires to be acquainted withal. Page. I warrant you, he's the man should fight with him. Slen. O, sweet Anne Page! Shal. It appears so, by his weapons:-Keep them asunder; here comes doctor Caius. Enter Host, CAIUS, and RUGBY. Page. Nay, good master parson, keep in your weapon. Shal. So do you, good master doctor. Host. Disarm them, and let them question; let them keep their limbs whole, and hack our English. Caius. I pray you, le-a me speak a word vit your ear: Verefore vill you not meet a-me? Eva. Pray you, use your patience: In good time. Caius. By gar, you are de coward, de Jack dog, John ape. Eva. Pray you, let us not be laughing-stogs to other men's humors; I desire you in friendship, and I will one way or other make you amends:-I will knog your urinals about your knave's cogscomb, for missing your meetings and appointments. Caius. Diable!-Jack Rugby,-mine Host de Jarterre,-have I not stay for him, to kill him? have I not, at de place I did appoint? Eva. As I am a Christians soul, now, look you, this is the place appointed; I'll be judgment by mine host of the Garter. Host. Peace, I say, Guallia and Gaul, French and Welsh, soul-curer and body-curer. Caius. Ay, dat is very good! excellent! Host. Peace, I say; hear mine host of the Garter. Am I politic? am I subtle? am I a Machiavel? Shall I lose my doctor? no; he gives me the potions, and the motions. Shall I lose my parson, my priest, my Sir Hugh? no; he gives me the proverbs and the noverbs. Give me thy hand, terrestrial; so:-Give me thy hand, celestial; so.-Boys of art, I have deceived you both; I have directed you to wrong places: your hearts are mighty, your skins are whole, and let burnt sack be the issue.-Come, lay their swords to pawn:-Follow me, lad of peace; follow, follow, follow. Shal. Trust me, a mad host:-Follow, gentlemen, follow. Slen. O, sweet Anne Page! [Exeunt SHAL. SLEN. PAGE, and Host. Caius. Ha! do I perceive dat? have you make-a de sot of us? ha, ha! Eva. This is well; he has made us his vloutingstog.-I desire you, that we may be friends; and let us knog our prains together, to be revenge on this same scall, scurvy, cogging companion, the host of the Garter. 3 Caius. By gar, vit all my heart; he promise to bring me vere is Anne Page: by gar, he deceive me too. Eva. Well, I will smite his noddles:-Pray you, follow. 1 Fool. 2 Flouting-stock. [Exeunt. 3 i. e. scalled head, a term of reproach. Chaucer imprecates on the scrivener who miswrites his verse "Under thy long locks mayest thou have the scalle." SCENE II. The Street in Windsor. Enter MISTRESS PAGE and ROBIN. Mrs. Page. Nay, keep your way, little gallant; you were wont to be a follower, but now you are a leader: Whether had you rather lead mine eyes, or eye your master's heels? Rob. I had rather, forsooth, go before you like a man, than follow him like a dwarf. Mrs. Page. O, you are a flattering boy; now, I see you'll be a courtier. Enter FORD. Ford. Well met, mistress Page: Whither go you? Mrs. Page. Truly, sir, to see your wife: Is she at home? Ford. Ay; and as idle as she may hang together, for want of company: I think, if your husbands were dead, you two would marry. Mrs. Page. Be sure of that,-two other husbands. Ford. Where had you this pretty weather-cock? Mrs. Page. I cannot tell what the dickens his name is my husband had him of: What do you call your knight's name, sirrah? Rob. Sir John Falstaff. Ford. Sir John Falstaff! Mrs. Page. He, he; I can never hit on's name. There is such a league between my good man and he! -Is your wife at home, indeed? Ford. Indeed she is. Mrs. Page. By your leave, sir;-I am sick, till I see her. [Exeunt MRS. PAGE and ROBIN. Ford. Has Page any brains? hath he any eyes? hath he any thinking? Sure, they sleep; he hath no use of them. Why, this boy will carry a letter twenty miles, as easy as a cannon will shoot point blank twelve score. He pieces-out his wife's inclination; he gives her folly motion and advantage: and now she's going |