Aum.
Cousin, farewel; what presence must not know,
From where you do remain, let paper show.

Mar.
My lord, no leave take I; for I will ride
As far as land will let me, by your side.

Gaunt.
Oh, to what purpose dost thou hoard thy words,
That thou return'st no Greeting to thy friends?

Boling.
I have too few to take my leave of you,
When the tongue's office should be prodigal,
To breathe th' abundant dolour of the heart.

Gaunt.
Thy grief is but thy absence for a time.

Boling.
Joy absent, grief is present for that time.

Gaunt.
What is six winters? they are quickly gone.

Boling.
To men in joy; but grief makes one hour ten.

Gaunt.
Call it a Travel, that thou tak'st for pleasure.

Boling.
My heart will sigh, when I miscall it so,
Which finds it an inforced pilgrimage.

Gaunt.
The sullen passage of thy weary steps
Esteem a foil, wherein thou art to set
The precious jewel of thy home-return.

Boling.
Nay, rather, ev'ry tedious stride I make
Will but remember me, what a deal of World
I wander from the Jewels that I love.
Must I not serve a long Apprentice-hood,
To foreign passages, and in the End
Having my Freedom, boast of Nothing else
But that I was a Journeyman to Grief?

Gaunt.
^{3 note}All Places that the Eye of Heaven visits,
Are to a wise man ports and happy havens.
Teach thy necessity to reason thus:
There is no virtue like necessity.
Think not, the King did banish Thee;
But Thou the King. Woe doth the heavier sit,
Where it perceives It is but faintly borne.
Go say, I sent thee forth to purchase honour,
And not, the King exil'd thee. Or suppose,
Devouring Pestilence hangs in our air,

And thou art flying to a fresher clime.
Look, what thy soul holds dear, imagin it
To lye that way thou go'st, not whence thou com'st.
Suppose the singing birds, musicians;
The grass whereon thou tread'st, the presence-floor;
The flow'rs, fair ladies; and thy steps, no more
Than a delightful measure, or a dance.
For gnarling Sorrow hath less Pow'r to bite
The Man, that mocks at it, and sets it light.

Boling.
Oh, who can hold a fire in his hand,
By thinking on the frosty Caucasus?
Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite,
By bare imagination of a feast?
Or wallow naked in December snow,
By thinking on fantastick Summer's heat?
Oh, no! the apprehension of the good
Gives but the greater feeling to the worse;
Fell sorrow's tooth doth never rankle more
Than when it bites, but lanceth not the sore.

Gaunt.
Come, come, my son, I'll bring thee on thy way;
Had I thy Youth, and Cause, I would not stay.

Boling.
Then, England's Ground, farewel; sweet soil, adieu,
My mother and my nurse, which bears me yet.
Where-e'er I wander, boast of this I can,
Though banish'd; yet a true-born Englishman. [Exeunt.

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