If this same were a church-yard where we stand, Had bak'd thy blood, and made it heavy, thick; Or if that thou could'st see me without eyes, K. John. Do not I know, thou would'st? And, wheresoe'er this foot of mine doth tread, K. John. Enough. I could be merry now: Hubert, I love thee; K. John. For England, cousin : Hubert shall be your man, attend on you With all true duty.-On toward Calais, ho! [Exeunt. SCENE IV. The same. The French King's Tent. Enter King PHILIP, LEWIS, PANDULPH, and Attendants. K. Phi. So, by a roaring tempest on the flood, A whole armado of convicted sail Is scatter'd and disjoin'd from fellowship. Pund. Courage and comfort! all shall yet go well. K. 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? O'erbearing interruption, spite of France? Lew. What he hath won, that hath he fortified: So hot a speed with such advice dispos'd, Such temperate order in so fierce a cause, K. Phi. 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; Const. Lo, now! now see the issue of your peace! K. Phi. Patience, good lady! comfort, gentle Constance! Const. No, I defy' all counsel, all redress, And put my eye-balls in thy vaulty brows; Come, grin on me; and I will think thou smil'st, O, come to me! K. Phi. 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 would I shake the world; And rouse from sleep that fell anatomy, I Refuse. Which cannot hear a lady's feeble voice, Which scorns a modern 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 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. 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 glew themselves in sociable grief; Const. To England, if you will. K. John. Bind up your hairs. Const. Yes, that I will; and wherefore will I do it? I tore them from their bonds; and cried aloud, 2 Common. O that these hands could so redeem my son, And will again commit them to their bonds, And, father cardinal, I have heard you say, For, since the birth of Cain, the first male child, There was not such a gracious 4 creature born. When I shall meet him in the court of heaven 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, [Tearing off her Head-dress. |