Const.
Gone to be marry'd! gone to swear a peace!
False blood to false blood join'd! Gone to be friends!
Shall Lewis have Blanch, and Blanch those provinces?
It is not so, thou hast mis-spoke, mis-heard;
Be well advis'd, tell o'er thy tale again,
It cannot be; thou dost but say 'tis so.
I think I may not trust thee, for thy word
Is but the vain breath of a common man:
I have a King's oath to the contrary.
Thou shalt be punish'd for thus frighting me,
For I am sick, and capable of fears,
Opprest with wrongs, and therefore full of fears:
A widow, husbandless, subject to fears,
A woman, naturally born to fears.
And though thou now confess thou didst but jest,

With my vext spirits I can't take a truce,
But they will quake and tremble all this day.
What dost thou mean by shaking of thy head?
Why dost thou look so sadly on my son?
What means that hand upon that breast of thine?
Why holds thine eye that lamentable rheum,
Like a proud river peering o'er his bounds?
Be these sad signs confirmers of thy words?
Then speak again; not all thy former tale,
But this one word, whether thy tale be true.

Sal.
As true, as I believe you think them false
That give you cause to prove my saying true.

Const.
Oh if thou teach me to believe this sorrow,
Teach thou this sorrow how to make me die;
And let belief and life encounter so,
As doth the fury of two desp'rate men,
Which, in the very meeting, fall and die.
Lewis wed Blanch! O boy, then where art thou?
France friend with England! what becomes of me?
Fellow be gone, I cannot brook thy sight.* ^note

Arth.
I do beseech you, mother, be content.

Const.
If thou that bidst me be content, wert grim,
Ugly, and sland'rous to thy mother's womb,
Full of unpleasing blots, and sightless stains,
Lame, foolish, crooked, swart, prodigious,
Patch'd with foul moles, and eye-offending marks;
I would not care, I then would be content:
For then I should not love thee: no, nor thou

Become thy great birth, nor deserve a crown.
But thou art fair, and at thy birth, dear boy!
Nature and Fortune join'd to make thee great.
Of Nature's gifts thou may'st with lillies boast,
And with the half-blown rose. But Fortune, oh!
She is corrupted, chang'd, and won from thee,
Adulterates hourly with thine uncle John,
And with her golden hand hath pluckt on France
To tread down fair respect of soveraignty,
And made his majesty the bawd to theirs.
France is a bawd to Fortune, and to John,
That strumpet Fortune, that usurping John!
Tell me, thou fellow, is not France forsworn?
Envenom him with words, or get thee gone,
And leave these woes alone which I alone
Am bound to under-bear.

Sal.
Pardon me, madam,
I may not go without you to the Kings.

Const.
Thou may'st, thou shalt, I will not go with thee.
I will instruct my sorrow to be proud;
For grief is proud, and makes his owner stoop.
To me, and to the state of my great grief,
Let Kings assemble: for my grief's so great,
That no supporter but the huge firm earth
Can hold it up: Here I and sorrow sit;
Here is my throne, bid Kings come bow to it.

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