A woman, naturally born to fears;
And though thou now confess thou didst but jest,
With my vex’d spirits I cannot take a truce,
But they will quake and tremble all this day.
What dost thou mean by shaking of thy head?
Why dost thou look so sadly on my son?
What means that hand upon that breast of thine?
Why holds thine eye that lamentable rheum,
Like a proud river peering o’er his bounds?
Be these sad signs confirmers of thy words?
Then speak again,—not all thy former tale,
But this one word, whether thy tale be true.
SALISBURY.
As true as I believe you think them false
That give you cause to prove my saying true.
CONSTANCE.
O, if thou teach me to believe this sorrow,
Teach thou this sorrow how to make me die;
And let belief and life encounter so
As doth the fury of two desperate men,
Which in the very meeting fall and die!—
Louis marry Blanch! O boy, then where art thou?
France friend with England! what becomes of me?—
Fellow, be gone: I cannot brook thy sight;
This news hath made thee a most ugly man.
SALISBURY.
What other harm have I, good lady, done,
But spoke the harm that is by others done?
CONSTANCE.
Which harm within itself so heinous is,
As it makes harmful all that speak of it.
ARTHUR.
I do beseech you, madam, be content.
CONSTANCE.
If thou, that bid’st me be content, wert grim,
Ugly, and slanderous to thy mother’s womb,
Full of unpleasing blots and sightless stains,
Lame, foolish, crooked, swart, prodigious,
Patch’d with foul moles and eye-offending marks,
I would not care, I then would be content;
For then I should not love thee; no, nor thou
Become thy great birth, nor deserve a crown.
But thou art fair; and at thy birth, dear boy,
Nature and fortune join’d to make thee great:
Of nature’s gifts thou mayst with lilies boast,
And with the half-blown rose; but Fortune, O!
She is corrupted, chang’d, and won from thee;
She adulterates hourly with thine uncle John;
And with her golden hand hath pluck’d on France
To tread down fair respect of sovereignty,
And made his majesty the bawd to theirs.
France is a bawd to Fortune and king John—
That strumpet Fortune, that usurping John!—
Tell me, thou fellow, is not France forsworn?
Envenom him with words; or get thee gone,
And leave those woes alone, which I alone
Am bound to underbear.
SALISBURY.
Pardon me, madam,
I may not go without you to the kings.
CONSTANCE.
Thou 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 stout.
To me, and to the state of my great grief,
Let kings assemble; for my grief’s 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.
[Seats herself on the ground.]
[Enter KING JOHN, KING PHILIP, LOUIS, BLANCH, ELINOR, BASTARD,
AUSTRIA, and attendants.]
KING PHILIP.
‘Tis true, fair daughter; and this blessed day
Ever in France shall be kept festival:
To solemnize this day the glorious sun
Stays in his course and plays the alchemist,
Turning, with splendour of his precious eye,
The meagre cloddy earth to glittering gold:
The yearly course that brings this day about
Shall never see it but a holiday.
CONSTANCE.
[Rising.] A wicked day, and not a holy day!
What hath this day deserv’d? what hath it done
That it in golden letters should be set
Among the high tides in the calendar?
Nay, rather turn this day out of the week,
This day of shame, oppression, perjury:
Or, if it must stand still, let wives with child
Pray that their burdens may not fall this day,
Lest that their hopes prodigiously be cross’d:
But on this day let seamen fear no wreck;
No bargains break that are not this day made:
This day, all things begun come to ill end,—
Yea, faith itself to hollow falsehood change!
KING PHILIP.
By heaven, lady, you shall have no cause
To curse the fair proceedings of this day.
Have I not pawn’d to you my majesty?
CONSTANCE.
You have beguil’d me with a counterfeit
Resembling majesty; which, being touch’d and tried,
Proves valueless; you are forsworn, forsworn:
You came in arms to spill mine enemies’ blood,
But now in arms you strengthen it with yours:
The grappling vigour and rough frown of war
Is cold in amity and painted peace,
And our oppression hath made up this league.—
Arm, arm, you heavens, against these perjur’d kings!
A widow cries: be husband to me, heavens!
Let not the hours of this ungodly day
Wear out the day in peace; but, ere sunset,
Set armed discord ‘twixt these perjur’d kings!
Hear me, O, hear me!
AUSTRIA.
Lady Constance, peace!
CONSTANCE.
War! war! no peace! peace is to me a war.
O Lymoges! O Austria! thou dost shame
That bloody spoil: thou slave, thou wretch, thou coward!