Which scorns a modern* invocation. *Commonplace. 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 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 canonized, 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.

K. 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
Do glue themselves in sociable grief,

Like true, inseparable, faithful loves,
Sticking together in calamity.

Const. To England, if you will.

K. Phi.

Bind up your hairs.

Const. Yes, that I will; and wherefore will I do it?

I tore them from their bonds and cried aloud 70
'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 true, I shall see my boy again;

For since the birth of Cain, the first male child,

To him that did but yesterday suspire,*

80

There was not such a gracious creature born.
But now will canker sorrow eat my bud *Breathe.
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 heaven
I shall not know him: therefore never, never
Must I behold my pretty Arthur more.

90

Pand. You hold too heinous a respect of grief. Const. He talks to me that never had a son. K. Phi. You are as fond of grief as of your child.

Const. 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,
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.

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

[Exit.

her. 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 drowsy man;

And bitter shame hath spoil'd the sweet world's taste,

ΙΙΟ

That it yields nought but shame and bitterness.
Pand. 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 show evil:

What have you lost by losing of this day? Lew. All days of glory, joy and happiness. Pand. If you had won it, certainly you had. No, no; when Fortune means to men most good, She looks upon them with a threatening eye. 120 'Tis strange to think how much King John hath lost

In this which he accounts so clearly won:

Are not you grieved that Arthur is his prisoner?
Lew. As heartily as he is glad he hath him.
Pand. Your mind is all as youthful as your
blood.

Now hear me speak with a prophetic 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 seized Arthur; and it cannot be 131
That, whiles warm life plays in that infant's
veins,

The misplaced John should entertain an hour,
One minute, nay, one quiet breath of rest.
A sceptre snatch'd with an unruly hand
Must be as boisterously 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.

140

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

Pand. You, in the right of Lady Blanch your wife,

May then make all the claim that Arthur did.
Lew. And lose it, life and all, as Arthur did.
Pand. 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 born shall cool the hearts
Of all his people and freeze up their zeal,
That none so small advantage shall step forth
To check his reign, but they will cherish it;

150

No natural exhalation in the sky,
No scope 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.

160

Pand. 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 named! The bastard Faulconbridge
Is now in England, ransacking the church,
Offending charity: if but a dozen French
Were there in arms, they would be as a call
To train ten thousand English to their side,
Or as a little snow, tumbled about,

170

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 topfull of offence.
For England go: I will whet on the king.
Lew, Strong reasons make strong actions: let

us go:

180

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

ACT IV.

SCENE I. A room in a castle.

Enter HUBERT and Executioners.

Hub. Heat me these irons hot; and look thou stand

Within the arras: when I strike my foot

Upon the bosom of the ground, rush forth,

And bind the boy which you shall find with me Fast to the chair: be heedful: hence, and watch. First Exec. I hope your warrant will bear out the deed.

Hub. Uncleanly scruples! fear not you: look to't. [Exeunt Executioners. Young lad, come forth; I have to say with you. Enter ARTHUR.

Arth. Good morrow, Hubert.

Hub.

Good morrow, little prince. Arth. As little prince, having so great a title To be more prince, as may be. You are sad. Hub. Indeed, I have been merrier.

Arth.

II

Mercy on me! Methinks no body should be sad but I: Yet, I remember, when I was in France, Young gentlemen would be as sad as night, Only for wantonness. By my christendom,* So I were out of prison and kept sheep, I should be as merry as the day is long; And so I would be here, but that I doubt My uncle practisest more harm to me: He is afraid of me and I of him: *Christianity. Is it my fault that I was Geffrey's son? +Plots. No, indeed, is't not; and I would to heaven

20

I were your son, so you would love me, Hubert. Hub. [Aside] If I talk to him, with his innocent prate

He will awake my mercy which lies dead:
Therefore I will be sudden and dispatch.

Arth. Are you sick, Hubert? you look pale to-day:

In sooth, I would you were a little sick,

That I might sit all night and watch with you: 30 I warrant I love you more than you do me.

Hub. [Aside] His words do take possession of my bosom.

Read here, young Arthur.

[Showing a paper. [Aside] How now, foolish rheum! Turning dispiteous torture out of door!

I must be brief, lest resolution drop

Out at mine eyes in tender womanish tears.