K. Phi.
So, by a roaring tempest on the flood,
A whole armado^{2 note}

Is scatter'd and disjoin'd from fellowship.

Pand.
Courage and comfort! all shall yet go well.

K. Phi.
What can go well, when we have run so ill?
Are we not beaten? Is not Angiers lost?
Arthur ta'en prisoner? divers dear friends slain?
And bloody England into England gone,
O'erbearing interruption, spite of France?

Lew.
What he hath won, that hath he fortified:
So hot a speed with such advice dispos'd,
Such temperate order in so fierce a cause^{4 note}

K. Phi.
Well could I bear that England had this praise,
So we could find some pattern of our shame.

Enter Constance.
Look, who comes here! a grave unto a soul;
Holding the eternal spirit, against her will,
In the vile prison of afflicted breath^{5 note}

Const.
Lo, now! now see the issue of your peace!

K. Phi.
Patience, good lady! comfort, gentle Constance!

Const.
No, I defy^{6 note}
all counsel, all redress,
But that which ends all counsel, true redress,
Death, death:—O amiable lovely death!
Thou odoriferous stench! sound rottenness!
Arise forth from the couch of lasting night,
Thou hate and terror to prosperity,
And I will kiss thy détestable bones;
And put my eye-balls in thy vaulty brows;
And ring these fingers with thy household worms;
And stop this gap of breath^{7 note} with fulsome dust,
And be a carrion monster like thyself:
Come, grin on me; and I will think thou smil'st,
And buss thee as thy wife^{8 note}

K. Phi.
O fair affliction, peace.

Const.
No, no, I will not, having breath to cry:—
O, that my tongue were in the thunder's mouth!
Then with a passion would I shake the world;
And rouse from sleep that fell anatomy,
Which cannot hear a lady's feeble voice,
Which scorns a modern invocation^{1 note}

Pand.
Lady, you utter madness, and not sorrow.

Const.
Thou art not holy^{2 note}

And teaches me to kill or hang myself:
If I were mad, I should forget my son;
Or madly think, a babe of clouts were he:
I am not mad; too well, too well I feel
The different plague of each calamity.

K. Phi.
Bind up those tresses^{3 note}: O, what love I note
In the fair multitude of those her hairs!
Where but by chance a silver drop hath fallen,
Even to that drop ten thousand wiry friends^{4 note}

Const.
To England, if you will^{5 note}.

K. Phi.
Bind up your hairs.

Const.
Yes, that I will; And wherefore will I do it?
I tore them from their bonds; and cried aloud,
O that these hands could so redeem my son,
As they have given these hairs their liberty!
But now I envy at their liberty,
And will again commit them to their bonds,
Because my poor child is a prisoner.—
And, father cardinal, I have heard you say,
That we shall see and know our friends in heaven:
If that be true, I shall see my boy again;
For, since the birth of Cain, the first male child,
To him that did but yesterday suspire^{6 note}

But now will canker sorrow eat my bud,
And chase the native beauty from his cheek,
And he will look as hollow as a ghost;
As dim and meagre as an ague's fit;
And so he'll die; and, rising so again,
When I shall meet him in the court of heaven
I shall not know him: therefore never, never
Must I behold my pretty Arthur more.

Pand.
You hold too heinous a respect of grief.

Const.
He talks to me, that never had a son^{8 note}

K. Phi.
You are as fond of grief, as of your child.

Const.
Grief fills the room up of my absent child^{9 note}

When there is such disorder in my wit.
O lord! my boy, my Arthur, my fair son!
My life, my joy, my food, my all the world!
My widow-comfort, and my sorrow's cure! [Exit.

K. Phi.
I fear some outrage, and I'll follow her. [Exit.

Lew.
There's nothing in this world, can make me joy^{2 note}:
Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale^{3 note}



,
Vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man;
And bitter shame hath spoil'd the sweet words taste^{4 note}

Pand.
Before the curing of a strong disease,
Even in the instant of repair and health,
The fit is strongest; evils, that take leave,
On their departure most of all show evil:

What have you lost by losing of this day?

Lew.
All days of glory, joy, and happiness.

Pand.
If you have won it, certainly, you had.
No, no: when fortune means to men most good,
She looks upon them with a threatening eye.
'Tis strange, to think how much king John hath lost
In this which he accounts so clearly won:
Are not you griev'd, that Arthur is his prisoner?

Lew.
As heartily, as he is glad he hath him.

Pand.
Your mind is all as youthful as your blood.
Now hear me speak, with a prophetick spirit;
For even the breath of what I mean to speak
Shall blow each dust, each straw, each little rub,
Out of the path which shall directly lead
Thy foot to England's throne; and, therefore, mark.
John hath seiz'd Arthur; and it cannot be,
That, whiles warm life plays in that infant's veins,
The misplac'd John should entertain an hour,
One minute, nay, one quiet breath of rest:
A scepter, snatch'd with an unruly hand,
Must be as boisterously maintain'd as gain'd:
And he, that stands upon a slippery place,
Makes nice of no vile hold to stay him up:
That John may stand, then Arthur needs must fall;
So be it, for it cannot be but so.

Lew.
But what shall I gain by young Arthur's fall?

Pand.
You, in the right of lady Blanch your wife,
May then make all the claim that Arthur did.

Lew.
And lose it, life and all, as Arthur did.

Pand.
How green you are, and fresh in this old world^{5 note}!

John lays you plots^{6 note}

Lew.
May be, he will not touch young Arthur's life,
But hold himself safe in his prisonment.

Pand.
O, sir, when he shall hear of your approach,

If that young Arthur be not gone already,
Even at that news he dies; and then the hearts
Of all his people shall revolt from him,
And kiss the lips of unacquainted change;
And pick strong matter of revolt, and wrath,
Out of the bloody fingers' ends of John.
Methinks, I see this hurly all on foot;
And, O, what better matter breeds for you,
Than I have nam'd^{9 note}
!—The bastard Faulconbridge
Is now in England, ransacking the church,
Offending charity: If but a dozen French
Were there in arms, they would be as a call^{1 note}
To train ten thousand English to their side;
Or, as a little snow^{2 note}, tumbled about,
Anon becomes a mountain. O noble Dauphin,
Go with me to the king: 'Tis wonderful,
What may be wrought out of their discontent:
Now that their souls are topfull of offence,
For England go; I will whet on the king.

Lew.
Strong reasons make strange actions^{3 note}

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