_Shadow_.--My mother's son, sir.

_Falstaff_.--Thy mother's son! Like enough, and thy father's shadow.
Prick him. Shadow will serve for summer.

_Shallow_.--Thomas Wart!

_Falstaff_.--Where's he?

_Wart_.--Here, sir!

_Falstaff_.--Is thy name Wart?

_Wart_.--Yea, sir.

_Falstaff_.--Thou art a very ragged wart.

_Shallow_.--Ha, ha, ha! Shall I prick him down, Sir John?

_Falstaff_.--It were superfluous; for his apparel is built upon his
back and the whole frame stands upon pins; prick him no more.

_Shallow_.--Ha, ha, ha! you can do it, sir; you can do it; I commend
you well.--Francis Feeble.

_Feeble_.--Here, sir.

_Falstaff_.--What trade art thou, Feeble?