Jas. A wife! why, she's a saint; one that ever bears a good sound soul about her.
Clown. Yes, when she wears her new shoes.
Jov. Shall we see her, my lord?
Lod. Where is she, Pambo?
Clown. Walking a turn or two i' th' garden with Francisco, sir; I'll go call her.
Lod. No, no, no; let her alone: 'tis pity indeed to part them, they are so well-matched. Was he not reading to her?
Clown. No, sir, she was weeping to him: she heard this morning that her confessor, father Jacomo, was dead.
Jas. Father Jacomo dead?
Lod. Why, now shall not we have her eat one bit this five days.
Clown. She'll munch the more in a corner: that's the puritan's fast.