Agrip. Climb up for God’s sake, reach me some of them.
Andel. Look up, which of these apples likes thee best?
Agrip. This hath a withered face, ’tis some sweet fruit.
Not that, my sorrows are too sour already.
Andel. Come hither, here are apples like gold.
Agrip. O, ay, for God’s sake, gather some of these.
Ay me, would God I were at home again!
Andel. Stand farther, lest I chance to fall on thee. [Climbs up.
Oh here be rare apples, rare red-cheeked apples, that cry come kiss me: apples, hold your peace, I’ll teach you to cry. [Eats one.
Agrip. O England, shall I ne’er behold thee more?
Andel. Agripyne, ’tis a most sugared delicious taste in one’s mouth, but when ’tis down, ’tis as bitter as gall.
Agrip. Yet gather some of them. Oh, that a princess
Should pine for food: were I at home again,
I should disdain to stand thus and complain.