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Enter Constance.

Look, who comes here? a grave unto a soul,
Holding th' eternal spirit ’gainst her will
In the vile prison of aiflicted breath ;
I pr’ythee, lady, go away with me.

Conf. Lo, now, now see the issue of your peace.
K. Phip. Patience, good Lady, comfort, gentle

Constance.
Conft. No, I defy all counsel, and redress,
But that, which ends all counsel, true redress,
Death, death ; oh amiable, lovely death!
Thou odoriferous stench, sound rottenness,
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 duft,
And be a carrion monster, like thyself:
Come, grin on me, and I will think thou smil'it,
And kiss thee as thy wife; misery's love,
O come to me !

K. Philip. O fair a Miction, peace.

Conjt. 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 Neep that fell anatomy,
Which cannot hear a Lady's feeble voice,
And scorns a' modern invocation.

Pund. Lady, you utter madness, and not sorrow,
Conjt. Thou art not holy to belie me fo;

7 Modern in vocation. ] It is in contempt, he uses this word, hard to say what Shakeppeare her modern grace. It apparently means by modern : is it not op- means something ligbi and in. posed to ancient. In All's well, confiderable. Thun onds well, speaking of a girl

I am

I am not mad; this hair I rear is mine:
My name is Constance, I was Geffrey's wife :
Young Arthur is my son, and he is loft!
I am not mad; I would to heaven, I were !
For then, 'tis like, I should forget myself.
Oh, if I could, what grief should I forget!
Preach some philofophy 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 deliverid of thele 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 diff'rent plague of each calamity,
K. Philip. • Bind up those trefies; 0, what love I

note
In the fair multitude of those her hairs;
Where but by chance a silver drop hath fall'n,
Ev'n to that drop ten thousand wiery friends
Do glew themselves in sociable grief;
Like true, inseparable, faithful loves,
Sticking together in calamity.

Conft. To England, if you will.
K. Philip. Bind up your hairs.

Cont. Yes, that I will; and wherefore will I do it?
I tore them from their bonds, and cry'd aloud,
O, that these hands could so redeem my son,
As they have giv’n 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,

3 It was necessary that con- lowing speeches had been equalfrance should be in:errupted, be. ly happy; but they only serve to cause a paflion so violent cannot iew, how difficult it is to mainbe boru long. I wish the fol. tain the pathetic long.

That

1

That we shall see and know our friends in heaven;
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 forrow 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 coo 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.
Conft. Grief fills the room up of my abfent 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;
Stuff's out his vacant garments with his form
Then have I reason to be fond of grief.
Fare you well; ' had you such a lots as I,
I could give better comfort than you do.
I will not keep this form upon my head,

[Tearing off her head-cloatbs.
When there is such diforder 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

9

bad you such a loss as I, ever cannot help himself carts his I could give better comfort -) eyes on others for assistance, and This is a sentiment which great often mistakes their inability for forrow always dictates. Who. coldness.

SCENE

SCENE VII. .

Lewis. ' 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.
A bitter shame hath spoilt the sweet world's taste,
That it yields nought but shame and bitterness.

Pand. Before the curing of a strong disease,
Ev'n in the instant of repair and health,
The fit is strongest : evils that take leave,
On their departure, most of all shew evil.
What have you lost by losing of this day?

Lewis. 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 threat’ning eye. 'Tis strange to think how much King John hath lost In this, which he accounts so clearly won. Are not you griev'd, that Arthur is his prisoner ?

Lewis. 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 prophetick spirit ; For ev'n the breath of what I mean to speak Shall blow each duft, each straw, each little rub, Out of the path which shall directly lead Thy foot to England's throne : and therefore mark. John hath feiz'd Arthur, and it cannot be That whilst warm life plays in that infant's veins, The misplac'd john should entertain an hour, A minuie, nay, one quiet breath, of rest. A scepter, snatch'd with an unruly hand,

* There's nothing in this, &c.] ftrongly in the earlier years; and The young Prince feels his de- when can disgrace be less welfeat with more sensibility than his come than when a man is going father. Shame operates most to his bride ?

Must

Must be as boilt'rously maintain’d, as gain'd.
And he, that stands upon a Nipp’ry place,
Makes nice of no vile hold to stay him up.
That John may stand, then Arthur needs must fall;
So be i:, for it cannot be but fo.

Lewis. 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.

Lewis. And lose it, life and all, as Aribar 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 fafety in true blood,
Shall find but bloody safety and untrue.
This act, fo evilly born, shall cool the hearts
Of all his people, and freeze up their zeal ;
That no lo small advantage shall step forth
To check his reign, but they will cherith it:
No nat'ral exhalation in the sky,
3 No 'scape of nature, no diftemper'd day,
No common wind, no.customed event,
But they will pluck away it's nac'ral cause,
And call them meteors, prodigies, and signs;
Abortives, and prefages, tongues of heav'n,
Plainly denouncing vengeance upon John.

Lewis. May be, he will not touch young Arthur's

life;

But hold himself fafe in his imprisonment.

Pand. O Sir, when he shall hear of your approach, If that young Arthur be not gone already, Ev'n at this news he dies : and then the hearts Of all his people shall revolt from him,

2 True blood.] The blood of was busy elsewhere, or intent on him that has the juft claim. some other thing. But the Or

* No’scape of nature,-) The ford Editor will have it, that author very finely calls a mon- Shakespeare wrote, Prous birth, an escape of nature. No foape of nature. As if it were produced while he

WARBURTON.

And

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