Pan.
Discourag'd! no; this Battle, like a Blow,
Upon the burning Cheek of injur'd Honour,
Shall turn the holy Vengeance to destroy him.
Such daring Outrage, Heresy so flagrant,
Should, as a midnight Fire, wake the whole Christian World
To quench the Flame. No, never can we bear
The Glories of our Papal Pow'r should stoop

To the inferior Sway of temp'ral Princes.
France bears but ill this fierce Rebuke of Fortune;
Therefore, in him to rouze the wonted Zeal,
The fiery Spirit, needful to our Cause,
Must be our Work of instant Policy.
He comes with wringing Discontent, Reproach,
Vexation on his Brow—it will be so!
Passions, like sudden Floods, must run their Course,
'Till of themselves they ebb, and straight are fordable. Enter King Philip and Dauphin.

K Philip.
Now, rash Legate, what have thy Counsels done?
Are these thy promis'd Blessings from above?
Now see the just Reward of broken Peace,
Of Faith betray'd! Is not the Hand of Heav'n
Against us? Arthur taken, Angiers lost!
Our Arms disgrace the Talk of vulgar Tongues!
While John, victorious from our bleeding Fields,
With Spoils of France in Triumph sails to England.

Dauph.
O mournful Blanch! how wilt thou now receive me? [Exit Dauphin.

Pand.
Thus Heav'n, by Suff'rings, forms the great Virtue;
Affliction bends the Soul to Piety.
The Heart of Man, made proud by Pow'r, is apt
To swell with Self-Opinion, to presume,
As Fortune and Success were held his Vassals.
Yet think not Heav'n forsakes, but by this Stroke
Incites thee rather to pursue this Heretick;
As Chance of War has made our Cause more desp'rate,
So are we bound, with double Duty, to retrieve it.

K. Philip.
Preach to the Seas! France is not now himself:
Recal the yester Sun! make me what then
I was, with Patience then—but not 'till then
With Patience can I hear thee; ha! see there!
Behold a Sorrow that exceeds our own. Enter Constance led by her Woman.
Reproach like this, what mortal Breast can bear!
Battles hard fought the bravest Sword may lose,
But by our broken Faith we chuse our Shame!

O fair Distress! well are thy Wrongs reveng'd!

Const.
What is thy Loss to my Calamity?
Thy Wounds bleed only from the Pride of Pow'r
Defeated; mine a tender Mother feels:
Ambition never knew the Throes of Nature.

K. Philip.
If Shame, Disgrace, and Ruin on thy Head,
That wrought thy Sorrows, can assuage them,
Ease then thy wounded Heart on my Disasters.

Const.
Has then Affliction taught thee this Compassion?
Constance yet never knew a Partner in
Her Woe: I came to triumph o'er thy Fate;
But my Reproach, suppress'd by thy Contrition,
Blends with my own a Sigh to thy Misfortunes.

Pand.
These social Sorrows, streaming to a Point,
But swell the Flood, and make our Purposes
Impracticable—[Apart.] Lady, be advis'd;
Let not your ill-tim'd Grief dissolve the King
In this unprofitable Softness—
Could you urge ought to animate our Cause,
That to his martial Spirit might recal him,
Then better might his Sword than Sighs relieve you.

K. Philip.
O never will that Day return! Advice
Is irksome now as is a twice told Tale,
Vexing the sick Man's Ear that fain would slumber.

Const.
If Kings on Earth are Substitutes of Heav'n,
Why wouldst thou warn him from its Attributes?
O if thy Heart be human, thou must know
That Pity, though it swells our Grief, relieves it.

Pand.
And yet 'twere kinder to redress than to augment it.

Const.
I prithee let me grieve! is that deny'd me? No,
I will not be debar'd the Right of Lamentation:
O that my Wailings had the Thunder's Voice,
That I might rive the very inmost Earth,
'Till from its hollow Womb grim Death might rise
To give my Miseries their only Cure.

Pand.
This more is Madness than the Voice of Sorrow.

Const.
Thou art not holy to belye me so;
I am not mad, I know my Wretchedness;
This Breast I beat, these Hairs I rend are mine;
My Name is Constance, Arthur is my Son,

The rightful, the imprison'd Heir of England.
Think me not mad, or thou wilt make me so.

K. Philip.
Disturb not, give her Griefs the way.

Const.
—O would
To Heav'n I were, that Madness might relieve me.
Preach some Philosophy to make me mad,
And I will call thee charitable Father:
For while thou seest me sensible, thou seest
Me wretched as the Sense of Woe can make me.

Pand.
O fair Affliction! be thy Soul at Peace;
I meant not to awake but hush thy Sorrows;
Yet think that Resignation is a Duty;
For righteous ever is the Will of Heav'n.

Const.
O 'tis too true, too rashly has, I fear,
My murm'ring Heart complain'd—'tis I, 'tis I,
Constance has drawn these dire Afflictions down;
The Life of Arthur was too young t' offend;
Therefore to double Wailings am I doom'd,
That on my poor Child's Head my Sins are fallen!

Pand.
Despair not, Lady, let your Patience shew,
Amidst its Wrath, your Trust is still in Heav'n.

Const.
He talks to me, that never had a Son.

K. Philip.
Be not more fond of Grief than of your Son.

Const.
I have no Son, Grief now supplies his room,
Fills up his vacant Garments with his Form,
Lies in his Bed, walks Hand in Hand along,
Puts on his pretty Looks, repeats his Words,
Remembers me of all his gracious Parts;
Must the dear Memory of these be lost?
And what, but Grief, can print them in my Mind? Enter Melun, who presents a Packet to King Philip.

K. Philip.
To us, Melun, from whence?

Melun.
—Express from England.
These to the Lord Cardinal are address'd;
And the same Post brought others to the Dauphin.

K. Philip.
What hear we of the Enemy?

Melun.
—King John
This Night, we are inform'd, sets out for Calais;
Prince Arthur, Madam, to some frontier Castle is

Confin'd, where Hubert has the Charge of him.

Const.
Tho' Death in all its Terrors were his Guard,
Dauntless Despair from Fort to Fort shall seek him:
So when her Fawn the Hunters Toils have snar'd,
The bounding Doe forsakes the safer Herd;
Wild o'er the Fields to his vain Help she flies,
And, press'd by Fear, on pointed Javelins dies. [Exit Constance. Enter Dauphin with Letters.

Dauph.
Now to our Cause, Sir, bring we Life reviv'd!
Howe'er proud John may boast his Feats in France,
Fortune, in England, will with Frowns receive him:
His murmuring Barons, ripe for a Revolt,
Recounting here at large their Grievances,
Invite our Arms to give their Cause Assistance.

K. Philip.
To the same Purport our Advices speak:
Here, from the Lords of Pembroke, Arundel,
Warren, and Salisbury, with farther Pow'rs
Associate, and by secret Oaths assur'd,
Receive we, by their own Hands attested,
Offers of fair Advantage to our Crown.

Pand.
Here the same Nobles have our holy Pow'r
Implor'd, to aid and sanctify their Arms.
Now mark! how secret are the Ways of Heaven!
That, from this Battle lost, has only mov'd
The War to surer Ground, from France to England!
O! never let Dejection droop the Head!
While thus the Arm of Providence supports thee!
That, when thy Hopes were sinking, raises them
To Conquest, Vengeance, and extended Empire!

K. Phil.
To England's Empire, what vain Hope can raise us?

Pand.
Not Hope, but Right, shall to thy lineal Blood
Confirm thy Claim! O! Royal Philip, hear me!
For now prophetick Spirit bids me speak!
Here, here before thee, stands the Heir of England!

Dauph.
What means your Eminence? explain this Wonder.

K. Phil.
Were John destroy'd, yet Royal Arthur lives;
And while he lives, what Claim steps in before him?

Pand.
Think you the Date of Arthur's Days a Bar?

Is not his Life in John of England's Pow'r?
O! never will he count his Crown secure,
Ne'er will his Fears know Rest, or Heart have Ease,
Till Life lies cold within the Veins of Arthur!

K. Philip.
Alas! unhappy Prince! I fear his Fate!

Pand.
Grant me then Arthur lost, (as sure you must,
Unless, against his Nature, John turn Saint)
Then, in the Right of Blanch the Dauphiness,
(John standing out-law'd by his Crimes to Rome)
Your Blood comes lineal to the Crown of England!

K. Phil.
Yet say that John intends not Arthur's Death?

Pand.
Is he not dead already were the Question!

Dauph.
Why in so close a Prison should he guard him?

Pand.
Unless to end him were a Cruelty
Unprofitable—or say he dies not now:
Yet when the warlike Dauphin's Trumpet fills
The English Air, that Instant Sound destroys him!
(For John dreams not of yours, but Arthur's Claim)
Thence falls the strong Impression on his Fears!—
And if he kills him, what can save himself?
How shall our holy Vengeance then pursue him!
Tempting, like Hounds, his Commons from Allegiance,
To snarl and scramble for the Bones of Majesty!

Dauph.
A People so misus'd deserve a Leader.

Pand.
Methinks I see this Hurly all on Foot!
Revolt and Rage in every Face!
Whose Prejudice and Zeal so fierce shall flame,
That not a common Vapour in the Air,
Or distant Thunder in the Clouds, shall roll,
But shall as Prodigies, and dire Portent, be deem'd
Of destin'd Vengeance on his impious Head!

K. Philip.
I see, I see it now! The Will of Heav'n ordains it!
And warlike Preparations shall obey:
Melun, lose not an Hour! collect your Troops,
Recruit the broken; be their Numbers doubled!
Our Edicts o'er the Land once more shall drain
The Purse of Nobles, and the Peasantry:
And O! Lord Cardinal—

Pand.
—We know thy Wants!
Nor shall the exempted Clergy here be free:

The sov'reign Pontiff, in a Cause so righteous,
Shall suffer thee to draw from sacred Coffers,
Though, by this Aid, their Charities were stinted!
No, not a Mendicant, in all thy Realms,
But shall his Mite contribute to the Cause!

K. Philip.
Go then, our eldest Hope! be thine the Glory!
Waft thee with earliest Winds to head this War;
Drive from fair Albion's Isle this Infidel!
Assert thy Right, and mount his forfeit Throne!
To thy sage Counsels, Father, we commend him.

Pand.
Not my own Life more precious in my Care.

Dauph.
Nor Life more pleasing than this glorious Charge!

K. Philip.
Farewel, my Boy! if thou speed'st well—for ever.
Never was Breast in Parting so divided!
If thou in England reign'st, thy Right in France,
While we survive, admits not thy Return.
Thus while thy Welfare we of Heav'n implore,
Our highest Hope—is never to behold thee more. [Exeunt severally.

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