[Enter mistress ford and mistress page.]
Sir John! Art thou there, my deer? my male deer?
Falstaff. My doe with the black scut! Let the sky rain potatoes; let it thunder to the tune of ‘Greensleeves’; hail kissing-comfits and snow eringoes; let there come a tempest of provocation, I will shelter me here.
Mistress Page is come with me, sweetheart.
Falstaff. Divide me like a brib’d buck, each a haunch; I will keep my sides to myself, my shoulders for the fellow of this walk, and my horns I bequeath your husbands. Am I a woodman, ha? Speak I like Herne the hunter? Why, now is Cupid a child of conscience; he makes restitution. As I am a true spirit, welcome!
Alas! what noise?
Heaven forgive our sins!
What should this be?
[They run off.]
I think the devil will not have me damned, lest the oil that’s
in me should set hell on fire; he would never else cross me thus.
[Enter sir Hugh Evans like a Satyr, pistol as a Hobgoblin, Anne page as the the Fairy Queen, attended by her Brothers and Others, as fairies, with waxen tapers on their heads.]
Fairies, black, grey, green, and white,
You moonshine revellers, and shades of night,
You orphan heirs of fixed destiny,
Attend your office and your quality.
Crier Hobgoblin, make the fairy oyes.
Elves, list your names: silence, you airy toys!
Cricket, to Windsor chimneys shalt thou leap:
Where fires thou find’st unrak’d, and hearths unswept,
There pinch the maids as blue as bilberry:
Our radiant Queen hates sluts and sluttery.
They are fairies; he that speaks to them shall die:
I’ll wink and couch: no man their works must eye.
[Lies down upon his face.]
Where’s Bede? Go you, and where you find a maid
That, ere she sleep, has thrice her prayers said,
Rein up the organs of her fantasy,
Sleep she as sound as careless infancy;
But those as sleep and think not on their sins,
Pinch them, arms, legs, backs, shoulders, sides, and shins.
Search Windsor castle, elves, within and out:
Strew good luck, ouphes, on every sacred room,
That it may stand till the perpetual doom,
In state as wholesome as in state ’tis fit,
Worthy the owner and the owner it.
The several chairs of order look you scour
With juice of balm and every precious flower: