+Lod.+ Did chronicle ever match this couple, gentlemen? +Jas.+ You make us wonder, That both should seem to yield to the temptation, And both so meet in one resolved goodness, Unknown to one another! +Lod.+ There lies the jest on't. Sirrah Pambo, I do but think, an' she had met him in the garden, how she would have rattled him. +Clown.+ And ruffled him too, sir: the camomile[133] would have been better for it many a day after. +Jov.+ Such an honest-minded servant where shall one find? +Lod.+ Servant! my sworn brother, man; he's too honest for an office, he'll never thrive in't: ye have few servants will deal so mercifully with their lords. +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. +Lod.+ Nay, do but judge of her, my lords, by one thing: whereas most of our dames go to confession but once a month, some twice a quarter, and some but once a year, and that upon constraint too, she never misses twice a week. +Jas.+ 'Tis wonderful! +Jov.+ 'Tis a sign she keeps all well at home: they are even With the whole world, that so keep touch with heaven. +Lod.+ Nay, I told ye, ye should find no Philippo of Francisco. +Clown.+ And I remember I told your honour you should find no Abstemia of my lady. +Lod.+ Nor no Lorenzo of myself: he was ever a melancholy stubborn fellow. He kept her in too much, and see what comes on't! I give my wife her will, and see what comes on't too! +Clown.+ Nay, sir, there is two come on't, an' a man could discover 'em. +Lod.+ Two what, I prythee? +Clown.+ It may be two babies, sir: for they come commonly with giving a woman her will. +Lod.+ I'd laugh at that, i' faith, boy. But who has she now for her confessor? +Clown.+ She looks for one, they call him father Antony, sir; and he's wished[134] to her by Madonna Lussuriosa. _Enter +Dorothea+ and +Francisco+._ +Lod.+ There's another modest soul too, never without a holy man at her elbow! But here comes one outweighs them all. Why, how now, chick, weeping so fast? This is the fault of most of our ladies; painting--weeping for their sins I should say, spoils their faces. +Fran.+ Sweet madam.