AUMERLE Cousin, farewell. What presence must not know,
From where you do remain let paper show. [Exit]
LORD MARSHAL My lord, no leave take I, for I will ride
As far as land will let me by your side.
GAUNT O, to what purpose dost thou hoard thy words
That thou return’st no greeting to thy friends?
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 my heart. (1.3.249-257)
Aumerle just putting down a marker here, that he’s going to be a less than minor character later on, by lingering to say an individual farewell to his cousin Bolingbroke: let paper show what you can’t tell me in person, that is, write to me. His exit stage direction here is editorial, but makes sense, as the Lord Marshal’s next lines imply that Aumerle has taken his leave, that is, left. Here the Lord Marshal has abandoned his careful, formal neutrality from earlier in the scene: he is going to stick with Bolingbroke until his final moment of departure, escorting him to the shore or port where he will take ship for the continent. (His picturesque turn of phrase—I will ride as far as land will let me by your side—evokes England (or Britain) as island, a land with edges, coastline, as well as borders; this will be restated more resonantly a little later in the play.)
Bolingbroke hasn’t said a word, for 40 lines: why are you hoarding your words, storing them up unspoken, asks his father Gaunt, rather than replying to your (evidently distressed) friends? Because I have too few already to say what I want to say in taking my leave of you, replies Bolingbroke to his father. My heart is full, it abounds with dolour, suffering and sorrow, and it is my tongue’s task and duty to try to express that expansively, lavishly, profusely. Prodigal is interesting here, because although it mostly has the sense of profuse, excessive, over-spent, it derives that sense from the biblical story of the prodigal son, the wastrel who leaves his father (and dutiful brother) at home for a life of riot and excess, loses all his money, and returns home destitute, to be welcomed home with feasting and forgiveness by his devoted father. Will Bolingbroke be a prodigal? The suggestion is that he won’t—but, regardless, will Gaunt survive long enough to welcome him home, to kill the fatted calf in his honour? (Prodigals and their reformation were a regular feature of the London stage at this time, often in city comedies but found in other kinds of drama too.)
