Wynne. I do not fear to see it. You've taught me, sir,
The wounds you give me carry their own heal.
Hen. But this is deep.
Wynne. The richer then the balm.
Hen. Then out, poor Henry, with thy heart's misdeed.
[Turns to the court]
Listen, my lords,—my gracious court,—to you
I make appeal. Is any here who holds
Me in such wintry and removed regard