Such question rippeth up cause of new woe,
For one, opened, might unfold many moe.
HOB. Nay, but sorrow close shrouded in heart,
I know, to keep is a burdenous smart:
Each thing imparted is more eath to bear:
When the rain is fallen, the clouds waxen clear.
And now, sithence I saw thy head last,
Thrice three moons be fully spent and past;
Since when thou hast measured much ground,
And wandered well about the world round,