Bushy.
Madam, your Majesty is much too sad:
You promis'd, when you parted with the King,
To lay aside self-harming heaviness,
And entertain a chearful disposition.

Queen.
To please the King, I did; to please myself,
I cannot do it; yet I know no cause,
Why I should welcome such a guest as grief;
Save bidding farewel to so sweet a Guest
As my sweet Richard. Yet again, methinks,
Some unborn sorrow, ripe in fortune's womb,
Is coming tow'rd me; and my inward soul
^{2 note}

Bushy.
Each substance of a grief hath twenty shadows,
Which shew like grief it self, but are not so:
For sorrow's eye, glazed with blinding tears,
Divides one thing entire to many objects;
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Like Perspectives, which, rightly gaz'd upon,

Shew nothing but confusion; ey'd awry,
Distinguish form.—So your sweet Majesty,
Looking awry upon your lord's departure,
Finds shapes of grief, more than himself, to wail;
Which look'd on, as it is, is nought but shadows
Of what it is not; gracious Queen, then weep not
More than your lord's departure; more's not seen:
Or if it be, 'tis with false sorrow's eye,
Which, for things true, weeps things imaginary.

Queen.
It may be so; but yet my inward soul
Persuades me otherwise. Howe'er it be,
I cannot but be sad; so heavy-sad,
^{4 note}As, though, on thinking, on no thought I think,
Makes me with heavy nothing faint and shrink.

Bushy.
'Tis nothing but Conceit, my gracious lady.

Queen.
'Tis nothing less; Conceit is still deriv'd
From some fore-father grief; mine is not so;
^{5 note}

Or something hath, the nothing that I grieve;
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