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Fal. Mistress Ford, your sorrow hath eaten up my sufferance. I see you are obsequious in your love, and I profess requital to a hair’s breadth, not only, Mistress Ford, in the simple office of love, but in all the accoustrement, complement, and ceremony of it. But are you sure of your husband now?

Mrs. Ford. He’s a-birding, sweet Sir John.

Mrs. Page [Within.] What ho, gossip Ford! What ho!

Mrs. Ford. Step into th’ chamber, Sir John.

[Exit Falstaff.]

[Enter] Mistress Page.

Mrs. Page. How now, sweet heart, who’s at home besides yourself?

Mrs. Ford. Why, none but mine own people.

Mrs. Page. Indeed?

Mrs. Ford. No, certainly. [Aside to her.] Speak louder.

Mrs. Page. Truly, I am so glad you have nobody here.

Mrs. Ford. Why?

Mrs. Page. Why, woman, your husband is in his old lines again. He so takes on yonder with my husband; so rails against all married mankind; so curses all Eve’s daughters, of what complexion soever; and so buffets himself on the forehead, crying, “Peer out, peer out!”, that any madness I ever yet beheld seem’d but tameness, civility, and patience to this his distemper he is in now. I am glad the fat knight is not here.