PAGE.
I will not believe such a Cataian, though the priest o' the town
commended him for a true man.

FORD.
'Twas a good sensible fellow: well.

PAGE.
How now, Meg!

MRS. PAGE.
Whither go you, George?--Hark you.

MRS. FORD.
How now, sweet Frank! why art thou melancholy?

FORD.
I melancholy! I am not melancholy. Get you home, go.

MRS. FORD.
Faith, thou hast some crotchets in thy head now. Will you go,
Mistress Page?

MRS. PAGE.
Have with you. You'll come to dinner, George?
[Aside to MRS. FORD] Look who comes yonder: she shall be our
messenger to this paltry knight.

MRS. FORD.
[Aside to MRS. PAGE] Trust me, I thought on her: she'll fit it.