ACT III SCENE 1. A field near Frogmore.
[Enter SIR HUGH EVANS and SIMPLE.]
I pray you now, good Master Slender's serving-man, and friend
Simple by your name, which way have you looked for Master Caius,
that calls himself doctor of physic?
Marry, sir, the pittie-ward, the park-ward, every way; old Windsor
way, and every way but the town way.
I most fehemently desire you you will also look that
I will, Sir.
Pless my soul, how full of chollors I am, and trempling of mind!
I shall be glad if he have deceived me. How melancholies I am!
I will knog his urinals about his knave's costard when I have goot
opportunities for the 'ork: pless my soul!
To shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sings madrigals;
There will we make our peds of roses,
And a thousand fragrant posies.
To shallow —
Mercy on me! I have a great dispositions to cry.
Melodious birds sing madrigals, —
Whenas I sat in Pabylon, —
And a thousand vagram posies.
To shallow, —
Yonder he is, coming this way, Sir Hugh.
To shallow rivers, to whose falls —
Heaven prosper the right! — What weapons is he?
No weapons, sir. There comes my master, Master Shallow, and another
gentleman, from Frogmore, over the stile, this way.
Pray you give me my gown; or else keep it in your arms.
[Reads in a book.]
[Enter PAGE, SHALLOW, and SLENDER.]
How now, Master Parson! Good morrow, good Sir Hugh. Keep a gamester
from the dice, and a good student from his book, and it is wonderful.
[Aside] Ah, sweet Anne Page!
'Save you, good Sir Hugh!
Pless you from his mercy sake, all of you!
What, the sword and the word! Do you study them both, Master Parson?
And youthful still, in your doublet and hose, this raw rheumatic day!
There is reasons and causes for it.
We are come to you to do a good office, Master Parson.
Fery well; what is it?
Yonder is a most reverend gentleman, who, belike having received
wrong by some person, is at most odds with his own gravity and
patience that ever you saw.
I have lived fourscore years and upward; I never heard a man of
his place, gravity, and learning, so wide of his own respect.
What is he?
I think you know him: Master Doctor Caius, the renowned French
Got's will and His passion of my heart! I had as lief you would
tell me of a mess of porridge.
He has no more knowledge in Hibbocrates and Galen, — and he is a
knave besides; a cowardly knave as you would desires to be
I warrant you, he's the man should fight with him.
[Aside] O, sweet Anne Page!
It appears so, by his weapons. Keep them asunder; here comes
[Enter HOST, CAIUS, and RUGBY.]
Nay, good Master Parson, keep in your weapon.