That all the miseries which nature owes
Were mine at once. No, come thou home, Rousillon,
Whence honour but of danger wins a scar,
As oft it loses all: I will be gone;
My being here it is that holds thee hence:
Shall I stay here to do't? no, no, although
The air of paradise did fan the house,
And [angels] officed all: I will be gone,
That pitiful rumour may report my flight,
To [consolate] thine ear. Come, night; end, day!