QUEEN.
It may be so; but yet my inward soul
Persuades me it is otherwise: howe'er it be,
I cannot but be sad, so heavy s,ad
As, though in thinking, on no thought I think,
Makes me with heavy nothing faint and shrink.

BUSHY.
'Tis nothing but conceit, my gracious lady.

QUEEN.
'Tis nothing less: conceit is still deriv'd
From some forefather grief; mine is not so,
For nothing hath begot my something grief,
Or something hath the nothing that I grieve:
'Tis in reversion that I do possess;
But what it is, that is not yet known; what
I cannot name; 'tis nameless woe, I wot.

[Enter GREEN.]

GREEN.
God save your majesty! and well met, gentlemen:
I hope the King is not yet shipp'd for Ireland.

QUEEN.
Why hop'st thou so? 'Tis better hope he is,
For his designs crave haste, his haste good hope:
Then wherefore dost thou hope he is not shipp'd?