Made this our wearisome and constant sojourn:
I would we were again in Britain.
Aur. Even so, good Uter, stands it with myself;
Nay, an thou yearn’st to see thy native land,
How is it, then, with me, that there have left
The jewel of my soul, my dearest Flavia!
Uter. Nay, good my brother, patience yet a little:
All will be well, Flavia doth love you still.
Aur. I cannot, will not bear this absence longer.
Enter Servant.