Pen. My Mistriss, Sir, does as a poor wrong'd Gentlewoman,
Too much, heaven knows, opprest with injuries;
May do and live.
Bar. Is the old fool still jealous?
Pen. As old fools are, and will be still the same, Sir.
Bar. He must have cause: he must have cause.
Pen. 'Tis true, Sir,
And would he had with all my heart.
Bar. He shall have.
Pen. For then he had Salt to his Saffron porridge.
Bar. Why do not [I] see thee sometime? why thou starv'd rascal?
Why do not ye come to me, you precious bow-case?
I keep good meat at home, good store.
Pen. Yes Sir, I will not fail ye all next week.
Bar. Thou art welcome,
I have a secret I would fain impart to thee,
But thou art so thin, the wind will blow it from thee,
Or men will read it through thee.