R. Roister. Well found, sweet wife, (I trust) for all this your sour look.
C. Custance. Wife! Why call ye me wife?
Sim. Sure (aside). Wife! This gear goeth a-crook.
M. Merry. Nay, Mistress Custance, I warrant you our letter
Is not as we read e'en now, but much better;
And where ye half stomached[141] this gentleman afore
For this same letter, ye will love him now therefore;
Nor it is not this letter, though ye were a queen,
That should break marriage between you twain, I ween.