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

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, spight 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 in so fierce a cause,
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 defie all counsel, all redress,
But that which ends all counsel, true redress,
Death; death, oh amiable, lovely death!
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 thy self;
Come, grin on me, and I will think thou smil'st,
And kiss thee as thy wife; thou Love of Misery!
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 modest 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 heav'n I were,
For then 'tis like I should forget my self.
O if I could, what grief should I forget!* ^note










I am not mad; too well, too well I feel

The different plague of each calamity.* ^note


















Oh 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.

&plquo;Const.
&plquo;Grief fills the room up of my absent child:
&plquo;Lyes in his bed, walks up and down with me;
&plquo;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, [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.

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