Brach. Devotion!
Is your soul charg'd with any grievous sin?


Isab. 'Tis burden'd with too many; and I think
The oftener that we cast our reckonings up,
Our sleep will be the sounder.


Brach. Take your chamber.


Isab. Nay, my dear lord, I will not have you angry!
Doth not my absence from you, now two months,
Merit one kiss?


Brach. I do not use to kiss:
If that will dispossess your jealousy,
I 'll swear it to you.


Isab. O, my loved lord,
I do not come to chide: my jealousy!
I am to learn what that Italian means.
You are as welcome to these longing arms,
As I to you a virgin.


Brach. Oh, your breath!