Page. The night is dark; light and spirits will become it well. Heaven prosper our sport! No man means evil but the devil, and we shall know him by his horns. Let’s away; follow me.
Scene 3. The street in Windsor.
[Enter mistress page, mistress ford, and doctor caius.]
Mrs. Page. Master Doctor, my daughter is in green; when you see your time, take her by the hand, away with her to the deanery, and dispatch it quickly. Go before into the Park; we two must go together.
I know vat I have to do; adieu.
Mrs. Page. Fare you well, sir. [Exit caius.] My husband will not rejoice so much at the abuse of Falstaff as he will chafe at the doctor’s marrying my daughter; but ’tis no matter; better a little chiding than a great deal of heart break.
Where is Nan now, and her troop of fairies, and the Welsh devil,
Mrs. Page. They are all couched in a pit hard by Herne’s oak, with obscured lights; which, at the very instant of Falstaff’s and our meeting, they will at once display to the night.
That cannot choose but amaze him.
If he be not amazed, he will be mocked; if he be amazed, he will
every way be mocked.
We’ll betray him finely.
Against such lewdsters and their lechery,
Those that betray them do no treachery.
The hour draws on: to the oak, to the oak!
[Enter sir Hugh Evans, disguised, with others as Fairies.]
Trib, trib, fairies; come; and remember your parts. Be pold,
I pray you; follow me into the pit; and when I give the watch-ords,
do as I pid you. Come, come; trib, trib.
Scene 5. Another part of the Park.
[Enter Falstaff disguised as Herne with a buck’s head on.]
Falstaff. The Windsor bell hath struck twelve; the minute draws on. Now the hot-blooded gods assist me! Remember, Jove, thou wast a bull for thy Europa; love set on thy horns. O powerful love! that in some respects, makes a beast a man; in some other a man a beast. You were also, Jupiter, a swan, for the love of Leda. O omnipotent love! how near the god drew to the complexion of a goose! A fault done first in the form of a beast; O Jove, a beastly fault! and then another fault in the semblance of a fowl: think on’t, Jove, a foul fault! When gods have hot backs what shall poor men do? For me, I am here a Windsor stag; and the fattest, I think, i’ the forest. Send me a cool rut-time, Jove, or who can blame me to piss my tallow? Who comes here? my doe?