K. Philip.
So, by a roaring tempest on the flood,
A whole Armado 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? diverse dear friends slain?
And bloody England into England gone,
O'er-bearing interruption, spight 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 defie all counsel, all redress,
But That, which ends all counsel, true redress,
Death, Death; oh amiable, lovely death!
Thou odoriferous Stench, sound Rottenness,
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 ring these fingers with thy houshold worms;
And stop this gap of breath with fulsom dust,
And be a carrion monster, like thy self;
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 a 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.(20) ^note

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 my self.
Oh, if I could, what grief should I forget!
Preach some Philosophy to make me mad,
And thou shalt be canoniz'd, Cardinal.
For, being not mad, but sensible of grief,
My reasonable part produces reason

How I may be deliver'd of these woes,
And teaches me to kill or hang my self.
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 diff'rent Plague of each Calamity.

K. Philip.
Bind up those tresses; O, what love I note
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 wiery 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.

Const.
Yes, that I will; and wherefore will I do it?
I tore them from their bonds, and cry'd aloud,
O, that these hands could so redeem my Son,
As they have giv'n 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 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;
Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form;
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 drowsie man.
A bitter shame hath spoilt the sweet world's taste,
That it yields nought but shame and bitterness.

Pand.
Before the curing of a strong disease,
Ev'n in the instant of repair and health,
The Fit is strongest: evils that take leave,
On their departure, most of all shew evil.
What have you lost, by losing of this day?

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

Pand.
If you had won it, certainly, you had.
No, no; when fortune means to men most good,
She looks upon them with a threat'ning 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?

Lewis.
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 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.
A scepter, snatch'd with an unruly hand,
Must be as boist'rously maintain'd, as gain'd.
And he, that stands upon a slipp'ry 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.

Lewis.
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.

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

Pand.
How green you are, and fresh in this old world?
John lays you plots; the times conspire with you;
For he, that steeps his safety in true blood,
Shall find but bloody safety and untrue.
This act, so evilly born, shall cool the hearts
Of all his people, and freeze up their zeal;
That no so small advantage shall step forth
To check his Reign, but they will cherish it.
No nat'ral exhalation in the sky,
No scape of nature, no distemper'd day,
No common wind, no customed event,
But they will pluck away its nat'ral cause,
And call them meteors, prodigies, and signs,
Abortives, and presages, tongues of heav'n
Plainly denouncing vengeance upon John.

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,
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!—The bastard Faulconbridge
Is now in England, ransacking the Church,
Offending Charity. If but twelve French
Were there in arms, they would be as a Call
To train ten thousand English to their side;
Or, as a little snow, tumbled about,
Anon becomes a mountain. Noble Dauphin;
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.

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