K. Philip.
'Tis true, fair daughter; and this blessed day
Ever in France shall be kept festival:
To solemnize this day, the glorious sun
Stays in his course, and plays the alchymist;
Turning with splendor of his precious eye
The meagre cloddy earth to glitt'ring gold.
The yearly course, that brings this day about,
Shall never see it, but a holy-day.

Const.
A wicked day, and not an holy-day.— [Rising.
What hath this day deserv'd? what hath it done,
That it in golden letter should be set
Among the high tides in the kalendar?
Nay, rather turn this day out of the week,
This day of shame, oppression, perjury:
Or, if it must stand still, let wives with child

Pray, that their burthens may not fall this day,
Lest that their hopes prodigiously be crost:
But on this day, let seamen fear no wreck;
No bargains break, that are not this day made;
This day, all things begun come to ill end,
Yea, faith itself to hollow fashood change!

K. Philip.
By heaven, lady, you shall have no cause
To curse the fair proceedings of this day:
Have I not pawn'd to you my Majesty?

Const.
You have beguil'd me with a counterfeit
Resembling Majesty, which, touch'd and try'd,
Proves valueless: you are forsworn, forsworn,
You came in arms to spill my enemies blood,
But now in arms, you strengthen it with yours.
The grapling vigour, and rough frown of war,
Is cold in amity and painted peace,
And our oppression hath made up this league:
Arm, arm, ye heav'ns, against these perjur'd Kings:
A widow cries, be husband to me, heav'n!
Let not the hours of this ungodly day
Wear out the day in peace; but ere sun-set,
Set armed discord 'twixt these perjur'd Kings.
Hear me, oh, hear me!

Aust.
Lady Constance, peace.

Const.
War, war, no peace; peace is to me a war.
O Lymoges, O Austria! thou dost shame
That bloody spoil: thou slave, thou wretch, thou coward,
Thou little valiant, great in villany!
Thou ever strong upon the stronger side;
Thou fortune's champion, that dost never fight
But when her humourous ladyship is by
To teach thee safety! thou art perjur'd too,
And sooth'st up greatness. What a fool art thou,
A ramping fool, to brag, to stamp, and swear,
Upon my party; thou cold-blooded slave,
Hast thou not spoke like thunder on my side?

Been sworn my soldier, bidding me depend
Upon thy stars, thy fortune, and thy strength?
And dost thou now fall over to my foes?
Thou wear a lion's hide! doff it for shame,
And hang a calve's-skin on those recreant limbs.

Aust.
O, that a man would speak those words to me!

Faulc.
And hang a calve's-skin on those recreant limbs.

Aust.
Thou dar'st not say so, villain, for thy life.

Faulc.
And hang a calve's-skin on those recreant limbs.

&plquo;Aust.
&plquo;^{1 note}Methinks, that Richard's pride and Richard's fall
&plquo;Should be a precedent to fright you, Sir.&prquo;

&plquo;Faulc.
&plquo;What words are these? how do my sinews shake!
&plquo;My father's foe clad in my father's spoil!
&plquo;How doth Alecto whisper in my ears,
&plquo;Delay not, Richard, kill the villain strait;
&plquo;Disrobe him of the matchless monument,
&plquo;Thy father's triumph o'er the savages.—
&plquo;Now by his soul I swear, my father's soul,
&plquo;Twice will I not review the morning's rise,
&plquo;Till I have torn that trophy from thy back;
&plquo;And split thy heart, for wearing it so long.&prquo;

K. John.
We like not this, thou dost forget thyself.

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