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Husband, I cannot pray that thou may'st win;
Uncle, I needs must pray that thou may'st lose;
Father, I may not wish the fortune thine ;
Grandam, I will not wish thy wishes thrive :
Whoever wins, on that side shall I lose;
Assured loss, before the match be play'd.
Pandulph. 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 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
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. Philip. 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;
Like true, inseparable, faithful loves,
Sticking together in calamity.
Constance. To England, if you will.
Bind up your hairs.
Constance. Yes, that I will; and wherefore will I do it?
I tore them from their bonds; and cried aloud,
O that these hands could so redeem my son
As they have given 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,
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,
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 ague's fit;
And so he'll 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.
Pandulph. You hold too heinous a respect of grief.
Constance. He talks to me, that never had a son.
K. Philip. You are as fond of grief, as of your child.
Constance. 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. When there is such disorder in my
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 !
K. Philip. I fear some outrage, and I'll follow her.
OU are too absolute;
Though therein you can never be too noble,
But when extremities speak. I have heard
Honour and policy, like unsever'd friends,
I'the war do grow together : Grant that, and tell me,
In peace, what each of them by th' other lose,
That they combine not there.
Tush, tush! Menenius.
A good demand. Volumnia. If it be honour, in your wars, to seem The same you are not (which, for your best ends, You adopt your policy), how is it less, or worse, That it shall hold companionship in peace With honour, as in war; since that to both It stands in like request ? Coriolanus.
Why force you this? Volumnia. Because that now it lies you on to speak To the people; not by your own instruction, Nor by the matter which your heart prompts you to,
But with such words that are but roted in
Your tongue, though but bastards, and syllables
Of no allowance, to your bosom's truth.
Now, this no more dishonours you at all,
Than to take in a town with gentle words,
Which else would put you to your fortune, and
The hazard of much blood.-
I would dissemble with my nature, where
My fortunes, and my friends, at stake, requir'd,
I should do so in honour: I am in this,
Your wife, your son, these senators, the nobles ;
you will rather show our general lowts How
you can frown, than spend a fawn upon them, For the inheritance of their loves, and safeguard Of what that want might ruin.
I prythee now, my son, Go to them, with this bonnet in thy hand; And thus far having stretch'd it (here be with them), Thy knee bussing the stones (for in such business Action is eloquence, and the eyes of the ignorant More learned than the ears), waving thy head, Which often, thus, correcting thy stout heart, Now humble, as the ripest mulberry That will not hold the handling : Or, say to them, Thou art their soldier, and being bred in broils, Hast not the soft way, which, thou dost confess, Were fit for thee to use, as they to claim, In asking their good loves ; but thou wilt frame Thyself, forsooth, hereafter theirs, so far As thou hast power, and person. Menenius.
This but done, Even as she speaks, why, all their hearts were yours :