Has Page any brains? Hath he any eyes? Hath he any thinking?
Sure they sleep, he hath no use of them. Why, this boy will carry a letter twenty mile, as easy as a cannon will shoot point-blank twelve score. He pieces out his wive’s inclination; he gives her folly motion and advantage; and now she’s going to my wife, and Falstaff’s boy with her. A man may hear this show’r sing in the wind. And Falstaff’s boy with her! Good plots, they are laid, and our revolted wives share damnation together. Well, I will take him, then torture my wife, pluck the borrow’d veil of modesty from the so-seeming Mistress Page, divulge Page himself for a secure and willful Actaeon; and to these violent proceedings all my neighbors shall cry aim.
The clock gives me my cue, and my assurance bids me search—there I shall find Falstaff. I shall be rather prais’d for this than mock’d; for it is as positive as the earth is firm that Falstaff is there. I will go.