BOLINGBROKE.
O, who can hold a fire in his hand
By thinking on the frosty Caucasus?
Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite
By bare imagination of a feast?
Or wallow naked in December snow
By thinking on fantastic summer’s heat?
O no, the apprehension of the good
Gives but the greater feeling to the worse.
Fell sorrow’s tooth doth never rankle more
Than when it bites but lanceth not the sore.
GAUNT.
Come, come, my son, I’ll bring thee on thy way.
Had I thy youth and cause, I would not stay.
BOLINGBROKE.
Then, England’s ground, farewell; sweet soil, adieu,
My mother and my nurse that bears me yet!
Where’er I wander, boast of this I can,
Though banished, yet a true-born Englishman.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE IV. London. A Room in the King’s Castle
Enter King Richard, Green and Bagot at one door; Aumerle at another.
KING RICHARD.
We did observe.—Cousin Aumerle,
How far brought you high Hereford on his way?
AUMERLE.
I brought high Hereford, if you call him so,
But to the next highway, and there I left him.
KING RICHARD.
And say, what store of parting tears were shed?
AUMERLE.
Faith, none for me, except the northeast wind,
Which then blew bitterly against our faces,
Awaked the sleeping rheum, and so by chance
Did grace our hollow parting with a tear.