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Nym. The good humor is to steal at a minute’s rest.

Pist. ‘Convey,’ the wise it call. ‘Steal’? foh! a fico for the phrase!

Fal. Well, sirs, I am almost out at heels.

Pist. Why then let kibes ensue.

Fal. There is no remedy; I must cony-catch, I must shift.

Pist. Young ravens must have food.

Fal. Which of you know Ford of this town?

Pist. I ken the wight; he is of substance good.

Fal. My honest lads, I will tell you what I am about.

Pist. Two yards, and more.

Fal. No quips now, Pistol! Indeed I am in the waist two yards about; but I am now about no waste; I am about thrift. Briefly—I do mean to make love to Ford’s wife. I spy entertainment in her. She discourses, she carves, she gives the leer of invitation. I can construe the action of her familiar style, and the hardest voice of her behavior (to be English’d rightly) is, “I am Sir John Falstaff’s.”

Pist. He hath studied her [well], and translated her will, out of honesty into English.

Nym. The anchor is deep. Will that humor pass?

Fal. Now, the report goes she has all the rule of her husband’s purse. He hath a legend of angels.