JOHN OF GAUNT O, to what purpose dost thou hoard thy words,

That thou return'st no greeting to thy friends?

HENRY BOLINGBROKE I have too few to take my leave of you,

When the tongue's office should be prodigal

To breathe the abundant dolour of the heart.

JOHN OF GAUNT Thy grief is but thy absence for a time.

HENRY BOLINGBROKE Joy absent, grief is present for that time.

JOHN OF GAUNT What is six winters? they are quickly gone.

HENRY BOLINGBROKE To men in joy; but grief makes one hour ten.

JOHN OF GAUNT Call it a travel that thou takest for pleasure.

HENRY BOLINGBROKE My heart will sigh when I miscall it so,

Which finds it an inforced pilgrimage.

JOHN OF GAUNT The sullen passage of thy weary steps

Esteem as foil wherein thou art to set

The precious jewel of thy home return.

HENRY