I will neuer mistrust my wife againe, till thou
art able to woo her in good English.
Haue I laid my braine in the Sun, and dri’de it,
that it wants matter to preuent so grosse ore-reaching as
this? Am I ridden with a Welch Goate too? Shal I haue
a Coxcombe of Frize? Tis time I were choak’d with a
peece of toasted Cheese.
Seese is not good to giue putter; your belly is al
Seese, and Putter? Haue I liu’d to stand at the
taunt of one that makes Fritters of English? This is enough
to be the decay of lust and late-walking through
Why Sir Iohn, do you thinke though wee
would haue thrust vertue out of our hearts by the head
and shoulders, and haue giuen our selues without scruple
to hell, that euer the deuill could haue made you our
What, a hodge-pudding? A bag of flax?
A puft man?
Old, cold, wither’d, and of intollerable entrailes?
And one that is as slanderous as Sathan?
And as poore as Iob?
And as wicked as his wife?
And giuen to Fornications, and to Tauernes,
and Sacke, and Wine, and Metheglins, and to drinkings
and swearings, and starings? Pribles and prables?
Well, I am your Theame: you haue the start of
me, I am deiected: I am not able to answer the Welch
Flannell, Ignorance it selfe is a plummet ore me, vse me
as you will.
Marry Sir, wee’l bring you to Windsor to one
Mr Broome, that you haue cozon’d of money, to whom
you should haue bin a Pander: ouer and aboue that you
haue suffer’d, I thinke, to repay that money will be a biting
Yet be cheerefull Knight: thou shalt eat a posset
to night at my house, wher I will desire thee to laugh
at my wife, that now laughes at thee: Tell her Mr Slender
hath married her daughter.
Doctors doubt that;
If Anne Page be my daughter, she is (by this) Doctour
Whoa hoe, hoe, Father Page.
Sonne? How now? How now Sonne,
Haue you dispatch’d?
Dispatch’d? Ile make the best in Glostershire
know on’t: would I were hang’d la, else.
Of what sonne?
I came yonder at Eaton to marry Mistris Anne
Page, and she’s a great lubberly boy. If it had not bene
i’th Church, I would haue swing’d him, or hee should
haue swing’d me. If I did not thinke it had beene Anne
Page, would I might neuer stirre, and’tis a Post-masters
Vpon my life then, you tooke the wrong.
What neede you tell me that? I think so, when
I tooke a Boy for a Girle: If I had bene married to him,
(for all he was in womans apparrell) I would not haue
Why this is your owne folly,
Did not I tell you how you should know my daughter,
By her garments?
I went to her in greene, and cried Mum, and
she cride budget, as Anne and I had appointed, and yet
it was not Anne, but a Post-masters boy.
Good George be not angry, I knew of
your purpose: turn’d my daughter into white, and indeede
she is now with the Doctor at the Deanrie, and
Ver is Mistris Page: by gar I am cozoned, I ha
married oon Garsoon, a boy; oon pesant, by gar. A boy,
it is not An Page, by gar, I am cozened.
Why? did you take her in white?
I bee gar, and’tis a boy: be gar, Ile raise all
This is strange: Who hath got the right Anne?
My heart misgiues me, here comes Mr Fenton.
How now Mr Fenton?
Pardon good father, good my mother pardon.
How chance you went not with Mr Slender?
Why went you not with Mr Doctor, maid?
You do amaze her: heare the truth of it,
You would haue married her most shamefully,
Where there was no proportion held in loue:
The truth is, she and I (long since contracted)
Are now so sure that nothing can dissolue vs:
Th’offence is holy, that she hath committed,
And this deceit looses the name of craft,
Of disobedience, or vnduteous title,
Since therein she doth euitate and shun
A thousand irreligious cursed houres
Which forced marriage would haue brought vpon her.
Stand not amaz’d, here is no remedie:
In Loue, the heauens themselues do guide the state,
Money buyes Lands, and wiues are sold by fate.
I am glad, though you haue tane a special stand
to strike at me, that your Arrow hath glanc’d.
Well, what remedy? Fenton, heauen giue thee
ioy, what cannot be eschew’d, must be embrac’d.
When night-dogges run, all sorts of Deere are
Well, I will muse no further: Mr Fenton,
Heauen giue you many, many merry dayes:
Good husband, let vs euery one go home,
And laugh this sport ore by a Countrie fire,
Sir Iohn and all.
Let it be so (Sir Iohn: ).
To Master Broome, you yet shall hold your word,