EVANS. Pauca verba, Sir John; goot worts.
FALSTAFF. Good worts! good cabbage! Slender, I broke your
head; what matter have you against me?
SLENDER. Marry, sir, I have matter in my head against you;
and against your cony-catching rascals, Bardolph, Nym,
and Pistol. They carried me to the tavern, and made me
drunk, and afterwards pick'd my pocket.
BARDOLPH. You Banbury cheese!
SLENDER. Ay, it is no matter.
PISTOL. How now, Mephostophilus!
SLENDER. Ay, it is no matter.
NYM. Slice, I say! pauca, pauca; slice! That's my humour.
SLENDER. Where's Simple, my man? Can you tell, cousin?
EVANS. Peace, I pray you. Now let us understand. There is
three umpires in this matter, as I understand: that is,
Master Page, fidelicet Master Page; and there is myself,
fidelicet myself; and the three party is, lastly and
finally, mine host of the Garter.
PAGE. We three to hear it and end it between them.
EVANS. Fery goot. I will make a prief of it in my note-book;
and we will afterwards ork upon the cause with as great
discreetly as we can.
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