Ford. What a damn'd Epicurian-Rascall is this? my
heart is ready to cracke with impatience: who saies this
is improuident iealousie? my wife hath sent to him, the
howre is fixt, the match is made: would any man haue
thought this? see the hell of hauing a false woman: my
bed shall be abus'd, my Coffers ransack'd, my reputation
gnawne at, and I shall not onely receiue this villanous
wrong, but stand vnder the adoption of abhominable
termes, and by him that does mee this wrong: Termes,
names: Amaimon sounds well: Lucifer, well: Barbason,
well: yet they are Diuels additions, the names of fiends:
But Cuckold, Wittoll, Cuckold? the Diuell himselfe
hath not such a name. Page is an Asse, a secure Asse; hee
will trust his wife, hee will not be iealous: I will rather
trust a Fleming with my butter, Parson Hugh the Welshman
with my Cheese, an Irish-man with my Aqua-vitae-bottle,
or a Theefe to walke my ambling gelding, then
my wife with her selfe. Then she plots, then shee ruminates,
then shee deuises: and what they thinke in their
hearts they may effect; they will breake their hearts but
they will effect. Heauen bee prais'd for my iealousie:
eleuen o' clocke the howre, I will preuent this, detect
my wife, bee reueng'd on Falstaffe, and laugh at Page. I
will about it, better three houres too soone, then a mynute
too late: fie, fie, fie: Cuckold, Cuckold, Cuckold.

Enter.


Scena Tertia.