Steward

Fool
I am out o’ friends, madam, and I hope to have
friends for my wife’s sake.
Countess
Such friends are thine enemies, knave.

for young Charbon the Puritan and old
Poysam the Papist, howsome’er their hearts are
severed in religion, their heads are both one

Fool
You’re shallow,
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Countess 
Alas! And would you take the letter of her?
Might you not know she would do as she has done
By sending me a letter? Read it again.

Ah, what sharp stings are in her mildest words!

Steward reads the  letter
I am Saint Jaques’ pilgrim, thither gone.
Ambitious love hath so in me offended
That barefoot plod I the cold ground upon,
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