K. Philip.
So by a roaring tempest on the flood,
A whole Armada of collected sail,
Is scatter'd and disjoin'd from fellowship.

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

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

Lewis.
What he hath won, that hath he fortify'd:
So hot a speed with such advice dispos'd,
Such temp'rate order in so fierce a cause,

Doth want example; who hath read, or heard,
Of any kindred action like to this?

K. Philip.
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 th' eternal spirit 'gainst her will,
In the vile prison of afflicted breath;
I pr'ythee, lady, go away with me.

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

K. Philip.
Patience, good lady; comfort, gentle Constance.

Const.
No, I defy all counsel, and redress,
But, that which ends all counsel, true redress,
Death, death; oh, amiable, lovely death!
Arise forth from thy couch of lasting night,
Thou hate and terror to prosperity,
And I will kiss thy detestable bones;
And put my eye-balls in thy vaulty brows;
And stop this gap of breath with fulsom dust,
And be a carrion monster, like thyself;
Come, grin on me, and I will think thou smil'st,
And kiss thee as thy wife; misery's love,
O come to me!

K. Philip.
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 my passion I would shake the world,
And rouze from sleep that fell anatomy,
Which cannot hear a lady's feeble voice,
And scorns a modern invocation.

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

Const.
Thou art not holy to belie me so;
I am not mad; this hair I tear is mine;
My name is Constance, I was Geffrey's wife:
Young Arthur is my son, and he is lost!
I am not mad; I would to heaven, I were!
For then, 'tis like, I should forget myself.

Oh, if I could, what grief should I forget!
I am not mad; too well, too well I feel
The diff'rent plague of each calamity.

K. Philip.
Bind up those tresses.
In the fair multitude of those her hairs,
Where but by chance a silver drop hath fall'n,
Ev'n to that drop ten thousand wiry friends
Do glew themselves in sociable grief;
Like true, inseparable, faithful loves,
Sticking together in calamity.

Const.
To England, if you will.—

K. Philip.
Bind up your hairs.

* ^noteConst.
Oh! father Cardinal, I have heard you say,
That we shall see and know our friends in heav'n;
If that be, I shall see my boy again.
For, since the birth of Cain, the first male-child,
To him that did but yesterday suspire,
There was not such a gracious creature born.
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 heav'n,
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.—

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

Const.
Grief fills the room up of my absent child;
Lyes in his bed, walks up and down with me;
Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words,

Remembers me of all his gracious parts;
Then have I reason to be fond of grief.
Fare you well; had you such a loss as I,
I could give better comfort than you do.
I will not keep this form upon my head, [Tearing off her head-cloaths.
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. Philip.
I fear some outrage, and I'll follow her. [Exit.

Lewis.
There's nothing in this world can make me joy;
Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale,
Vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man.
A bitter shame hath spoil'd the sweet world's taste,
That it yields nought but shame and bitterness.

Pand.
Your mind is all as youthful as your blood.
Now hear me speak with a prophetick spirit;
For ev'n 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 whilst warm life plays in that infant's veins,
The misplac'd John should entertain an hour,
A minute, nay, one quiet breath, of rest.
That John may stand, then, Arthur needs must fall.

Lewis.
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,
Ev'n at this news he dies: and then the hearts
Of all his people shall revolt from him.
Go with me to the king: 'tis wonderful
What may be wrought out of their discontent.
Now that their souls are top-full of offence,
For England go; I will whet on the King.

Lewis.
Strong reason makes strong actions: let us go;
If you say ay, the King will not say no. [Exeunt.* ^note

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