If this same were a churchyard where we stand, 40

And thou possessed with a thousand wrongs;

Or if that surly spirit, melancholy,

Had baked thy blood and made it heavy, thick,

Which else runs tickling up and down the veins,

Making that idiot, laughter, keep men’s eyes 45

And strain their cheeks to idle merriment—

A passion hateful to my purposes—

Or if that thou couldst see me without eyes,

Hear me without thine ears, and make reply

Without a tongue, using conceit alone,

Without eyes, ears, and harmful sound of words;

Then in despite of broad-eyed watchful day

I would into thy bosom pour my thoughts.

But, ah, I will not. Yet I love thee well,

And by my troth, I think thou lov’st me well.

HUBERT

So well that what you bid me undertake,

Though that my death were adjunct to my act,

By heaven, I would do it.

KING JOHN Do not I know thou wouldst?

Good Hubert, Hubert, Hubert, throw thine eye

On yon young boy. I’ll tell thee what, my friend,

He is a very serpent in my way,

And wheresoe’er this foot of mine doth tread,

He lies before me. Dost thou understand me?

Thou art his keeper.

HUBERT And I’ll keep him so

That he shall not offend your majesty. 65

KING JOHN

Death.

HUBERT My lord.

KING JOHN A grave.

HUBERT He shall not live.

KING JOHN Enough.

I could be merry now. Hubert, I love thee.

Well, I’ll not say what I intend for thee.

Remember. (To Queen Eleanor) Madam, fare you well.

I’ll send those powers o’er to your majesty. 70

QUEEN ELEANOR

My blessing go with thee.

KING JOHN (to Arthur) For England, cousin, go.

Hubert shall be your man, attend on you

With all true duty.—On toward Calais, ho!

Exeunt ⌈Queen Eleanor, attended, at one door, the rest at another door⌉

3.4 Enter King Philip, Louis the Dauphin, Cardinal Pandolf, and attendants

KING PHILIP

So, by a roaring tempest on the flood,

A whole armada of convicted sail

Is scattered and disjoined from fellowship.

PANDOLF

Courage and comfort; all shall yet go well.

KING PHILIP

What can go well when we have run so ill?

Are we not beaten? Is not Angers lost,

Arthur ta‘en prisoner, divers dear friends slain,

And bloody England into England gone,

O’erbearing interruption, spite of France?

LOUIS THE DAUPHIN

What he hath won, that hath he fortified. 10

So hot a speed, with such advice disposed,

Such temperate order in so fierce a cause,

Doth want example. Who hath read or heard

Of any kindred action like to this?

KING PHILIP

Well could I bear that England had this praise, 15

So we could find some pattern of our shame.

Enter Constance, distracted, with her hair about her ears

Look who comes here! A grave unto a soul,

Holding th’eternal spirit against her will

In the vile prison of afflicted breath.—

I prithee, lady, go away with me. 20

CONSTANCE

Lo, now, now see the issue of your peace!

KING PHILIP

Patience, good lady; comfort, gentle Constance.

CONSTANCE

No, I defy all counsel, all redress,

But that which ends all counsel, true redress:

Death, Death, O amiable, lovely Death! 25

Thou odoriferous stench, sound rottenness!

Arise forth from the couch of lasting night,

Thou hate and terror to prosperity,

And I will kiss thy detestable bones,

And put my eyeballs in thy vaulty brows, 30

And ring these fingers with thy household worms,

And stop this gap of breath with fulsome dust,

And be a carrion monster like thyself.

Come grin on me, and I will think thou smil’st,

And buss thee as thy wife. Misery’s love, 35

O, come to me!

KING PHILIP O fair affliction, peace I

CONSTANCE

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,

Which cannot hear a lady’s feeble voice,

Which scorns a modern invocation.

PANDOLF

Lady, you utter madness, and not sorrow.

CONSTANCE

Thou art not holy to belie me so.

I am not mad: this hair I tear is mine;

My name is Constance; I was Geoffrey’s wife;

Young Arthur is my son; and he is lost.

I am not mad; I would to God I were,

For then ’tis like I should forget myself.

O,if I could, what grief should I forget ! 50

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 delivered of these woes, 55

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. 60

KING PHILIP

Bind up those tresses. O,what love I note

In the fair multitude of those her hairs!