There was a hare, trapped on the hillside, and stewed in Malmsey, of a flavour so delicate that Gonzaga was regretting him his heavy indulgence in the ortolans; there was trout, fresh caught in the stream below, and a wondrous pasty that turned liquid in the mouth.

To wash down these good things there was stout red wine of Puglia and more delicate Malvasia, for in his provisioning of the fortress Gonzaga had contrived that, at least, they should not go thirsty.
"For a garrison awaiting siege you fare mighty well at Roccaleone," was Francesco's comment on that excellent repast.
It was the fool who answered him.

He sat out of sight upon the floor, hunched against the chair of one of Valentina's ladies, who now and again would toss him down a morsel from her plate, much as she might have treated a favourite hound.
"You have the friar to thank for it," said he, in a muffled voice, for his mouth was crammed with pasty.

"Let me be damned when I die, if I make him not my confessor.

The man who can so minister to bodies should deal amazingly well with souls.