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Evans. Seese is not good to give putter; your belly is all putter.

Fal. ‘Seese’ and ‘putter’! Have I liv’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 the realm.

Mrs. Page. Why, Sir John, do you think, though we would have thrust virtue out of our hearts by the head and shoulders, and have given ourselves without scruple to hell, that ever the devil could have made you our delight?

Ford. What, a hodge-pudding? A bag of flax?

Mrs. Page. A puff’d man?

Page. Old, cold, wither’d, and of intolerable entrails?

Ford. And one that is as slanderous as Sathan?

Page. And as poor as Job?

Ford. And as wicked as his wife?

Evans. And given to fornications, and to taverns, and sack, and wine, and metheglins, and to drinkings and swearings and starings, pribbles and prabbles?

Fal. Well, I am your theme. You have the start of me, I am dejected. I am not able to answer the Welsh flannel; ignorance itself is a plummet o’er me. Use me as you will.