Phi.
So, by a roaring tempest on the flood,
A whole armado of collected ^note sail
Is scatter'd, and disjoin'd from fellowship.

Pan.
Courage, and comfort! all shall yet go well.

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

Lew.
What he hath won, that hath he fortify'd:
So hot a speed with such advice dispos'd,
Such temperate order in so fierce a course ^note,14Q0554
Doth want example; Who hath read, or heard,
Of any kindred action like to this?

Phi.
Well could I bear that England had this praise,
So we could find some pattern of our shame. Enter Lady Constance, her Hair dishevel'd.
Look, who comes here! a grave unto a soul;
Holding the eternal spirit, against her will,
In the vile prison of afflicted breath:—
I pr'ythee, lady, go away with me.

Con.
Lo, now! now see the issue of your peace!

Phi.
Patience, good lady! comfort, gentle Constance!

Con.
No, I defy all counsel, all redress,
But that, which ends all counsel, true redress,
Death, death:—O amiable lovely death!
Thou odoriferous stench! sound rottenness!
Arise forth from the couch ^note 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 fulsome dust,
And be a carrion monster like thyself:
Come, grin on me; and I will think thou smil'st,
And buss thee as thy wife: Misery's love,
O, come to me!

Phi.
O fair affliction, peace.

Con.
No, no, I will not, having breath to cry:—
O, that my tongue were in the thunder's mouth!
Then with a passion would I ^note shake the world;
And rouse from sleep that fell anatomy,
Which cannot ^note hear a lady's feeble voice,
Which scorns a modern invocation.

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

Con.
Thou art not holy, to bely ^note 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:
O, 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 different plague of each calamity.

Phi.
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 fallen,
Even to that drop ten thousand wiry friends ^note
Do glew themselves in sociable grief;
Like true, inseparable, faithful loves,
Sticking together in calamity.

Con.
To England, if you will.14Q0555

Phi.
Bind up your hairs.

Con.
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 given 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 heaven:
If that be, I ^note 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 meager as an ague's fit,
And so he'll die; and, rising so again,
When I shall meet him in the court of heaven
I shall not know him: therefore never, never
Must I behold my pretty Arthur more.

Pan.
You hold too heinous a respect of grief.

Con.
He talks to me, that never had a son.

Phi.
You are as fond of grief, as of your child.

Con.
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: had you such a loss as I,
I could give better comfort than you do.—
I will not keep this form upon my head, [throwing away her Head-dress.
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 sorrows' cure! [Exit, wildly.

Phi.
I fear some outrage, and I'll follow her. [Exit K. Phi.

Lew.
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 drowzy man;
And bitter shame hath spoil'd the sweet world's ^note taste,
That it yields nought, but shame, and bitterness.

Pan.
Before the curing of a strong disease,
Even 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?

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

Pan.
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?

Lew.
As heartily, as he is glad he hath him.

Pan.
Your mind is all as youthful as your blood.
Now hear me speak, with a prophetick spirit;
For even 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, whiles warm life plays in that infant's veins,
The misplac'd John should entertain an hour,
One 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 slippery 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.

Lew.
But what shall I gain by young Arthur's fall?

Pan.
You, in the right of lady Blanch your wife,
May then make all the claim that Arthur did.

Lew.
And lose it, ^note life and all, as Arthur did.

Pan.
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 ^note born, shall cool the hearts
Of all his people, and freeze up their zeal;

That none so ^note small advantage shall step forth,
To check his reign, ^note but they will cherish it:
No natural exhalation in the sky,
No scape ^note of nature, no distemper'd day,
No common wind, no customed event,
But they will pluck away his natural cause,
And call them meteors, prodigies, and signs,
Abortives, presages, and tongues of heaven,
Plainly denouncing vengeance upon John.

Lew.
May be, he will not touch young Arthur's life,
But hold himself safe in his prisonment.

Pan.
O, sir, when he shall hear of your approach,
If that young Arthur be not gone already,
Even at that 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 a dozen French14Q0556
Were there in arms, they would be as a call
To train ten thousand English to their side;
Or, as a little snow, tumbl'd about,
Anon becomes a mountain. O 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.

Lew.
Strong reasons make ^note strong actions: ^note Let us go;

If you say, ay, the king will not say, no. [Exeunt.

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