K. Philip.
So, by a roaring tempest on the flood,
A whole^{5 note}

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 ^{6 note}in so fierce a course,
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!
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 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 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 ^{7 note}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!
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 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 diff'rent plague of each calamity.

K. Philip.
^{8 note}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;
Lies 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; ^{9 note}
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.

Previous section

Next section