Anthony:  And I you, also.  Farewell, mine own good cousin.

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BOOK TWO

Vincent:  It is no little comfort to me, good uncle, that as I came in here I heard from your folk that since my last being here you have had meetly good rest (God be thanked), and your stomach somewhat more come to you.  For verily, albeit I had heard before that, in respect of the great pain that for a month’s space had held you, you were, a little before my last coming to you, somewhat eased and relieved—­for otherwise would I not for any good cause have put you to the pain of talking so much as you then did—­yet after my departing from you, remembering how long we tarried together, and that we were all that while talking, and that all the labour was yours, in talking so long together without interpausing between (and that of matter studious and displeasant, all of disease and sickness and other pain and tribulation), I was in good faith very sorry and not a little wroth with myself for mine own oversight, that I had so little considered your pain.  And very feared I was, till I heard otherwise, lest you should have waxed weaker and more sick thereafter.  But now I thank our Lord, who hath sent the contrary.  For a little casting back, in this great age of yours, would be no little danger and peril.

Anthony:  Nay, nay, good cousin—­to talk much, unless some other pain hinder me, is to me little grief.  A foolish old man is often as full of words as a woman.  It is, you know, as some poets paint us, all the joy of an old fool’s life to sit well and warm with a cup and a roasted crabapple, and drivel and drink and talk!

But in earnest, cousin, our talking was to me great comfort, and nothing displeasing at all.  For though we commoned of sorrow and heaviness, yet the thing we chiefly thought upon was not the tribulation itself but the comfort that may grow thereon.  And therefore am I now very glad that you are come to finish up the rest.

Vincent:  Of truth, my good uncle, it was comforting to me, and hath been since to some other of your friends, to whom, as my poor wit and remembrance would serve me, I did report and rehearse (and not needlessly) your most comforting counsel.  And now come I for the rest, and am very joyful that I find you so well refreshed and so ready thereto.  But this one thing, good uncle, I beseech you heartily.  If I, for delight to hear you speak in the matter, forget myself and you both, and put you to too much pain, remember your own ease.  And when you wish to leave off, command me to go my way and seek some other time.