Act 3 - Scene 1
The French King's pavilion.
Enter CONSTANCE, ARTHUR, and SALISBURY
Gone to be married! gone to swear a peace!
False blood to false blood join'd! gone to be friends!
Lewis have Blanch, and Blanch those provinces?
It is not so; thou hast misspoke, misheard:
Be well advised,
tell o'er thy tale again:
It cannot be; thou dost but say 'tis so:
I trust I may not trust thee; for thy word
the vain breath of a common man:
Believe me, I do not believe thee, man;
I have a king's oath to the
Thou shalt be punish'd for thus frighting me,
For I am sick and capable of fears,
wrongs and therefore full of fears,
A widow, husbandless, subject to fears,
A woman, naturally born to
And though thou now confess thou didst but jest,
With my vex'd spirits I cannot take a truce,
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
Like a proud river peering o'er his bounds?
Be these sad signs confirmers of thy words?
speak again; not all thy former tale,
But this one word, whether thy tale be true.
As true as I believe you think them false
That give you cause to prove my saying true.
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.
marry Blanch! O boy, then where art thou?
France friend with England, what becomes of me?
gone: I cannot brook thy sight:
This news hath made thee a most ugly man.
What other harm have I, good lady, done,
But spoke the harm that is by others done?
Which harm within itself so heinous is
As it makes harmful all that speak of it.
I do beseech you, madam, be content.
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-
I would not care, I then would be content,
For then I should not love thee, no, nor thou
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,
She is corrupted, changed and won from thee;
She adulterates hourly with thine uncle John,
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
Tell me, thou fellow, is not France forsworn?
Envenom him with words, or get thee gone
those woes alone which I alone
Am bound to under-bear.
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