| Pardon me, madam,|
|I may not go without you to the kings.|
CONSTANCEThou mayst, thou shalt: I will not go with thee.
|I will instruct my sorrows to be proud;|
|For grief is proud, and makes his owner stoop.|| 5|
|To me and to the state of my great grief|
|Let kings assemble; for my griefs so great|
|That no supporter but the huge firm earth|
|Can hold it up: here I and sorrows sit;|
|Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it.|
(She seats herself on the ground)
|.. 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,|| 15|
|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 agues fit,|| 20|
|And so hell 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.|
PANDULPHYou hold too heinous a respect of grief.
CONSTANCEHe talks to me that never had a son.
K. PHILIPYou are as fond of grief as of your child.
CONSTANCEGrief 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,|| 30|
|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.|| 35|
|I will not keep this form upon my head|
|When there is such disorder in my wit.|
[Tearing off her head-dress.
|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.|| 40|
K. PHILIPI fear some outrage, and Ill follow her. [Exit.
LEWISThere 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 spoiled the sweet worlds taste|| 45|
|That it yields nought but shame and bitterness