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- 56 Merry Wives of Windsor [Act 11
Fahtaff. Reason, you rogue, reason ; thinkest thou
I '11 endanger my soul gratis ? At a word, hang no
more about me, I am no gibbet for you. Go. A short
knife and a throng ! To your manor of Pickt-hatch !
Go. — You '11 not bear a letter for me, you rogue ! you
stand upon your honour. Why, thou unconfinable
baseness, it is as much as I can do to keep the terms
of my honour precise. I, ay, I myself sometimes,
leaving the fear of God on the left hand and hiding
mine honour in my necessity, am fain to shuffle, to
hedge, and to lurch ; and yet you, rogue, will en-
sconce your rags, your cat-a-mountain looks, your
red-lattice phrases, and your bold-beating oaths,
under the shelter of your honour I You will not do
it, you ! 28
Pistol. I do relent ; what would thou more of man ?
Enter Robin
Robin. Sir, here 's a woman would speak with
you.
Fahtaff. Let her approach.
Enter Mistress Quickly
Quickly. Give your worship good morrow.
Fahtaff. Good morrow, good wife.
Quickly. Not so, an 't please your worship.
Fahtaff. Good maid, then.
Quickly. I '11 be sworn ; as my mother was, the
first hour I was born. 38
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