QUEEN: To please the king I did; to please myself I cannot do it; yet I know no cause Why I should welcome such a guest as grief, Save bidding farewell to so sweet a guest As my sweet Richard: yet again, methinks, Some unborn sorrow, ripe in fortune's womb, Is coming towards me, and my inward soul With nothing trembles: at some thing it grieves, More than with parting from my lord the king.