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 my self
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
With nothing trembles, yet at something grieves,
More than with parting from my lord the King.

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;
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: how-e'er it be,
I cannot but be sad; most heavy sad.* ^note

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,* ^note






But what it is, not known, 'tis nameless woe.

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