[♦] Queen. Away! though parting be a fretful corrosive,
It is applied to a deathful wound.
405 To France, sweet Suffolk: let me hear from thee;
[♦] For wheresoe’er thou art in this world’s globe,
I’ll have an Iris that shall find thee out.
Suf. I go.
[♦] Queen. And take my heart with thee.
[♦] Suf. A jewel, lock’d into the wofull’st cask
410 That ever did contain a thing of worth.
Even as a splitted bark, so sunder we: