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,
scorns a modern invocation.
Lady, you utter madness, and not sorrow.
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
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,
thou shalt be canonized, cardinal;
For being not mad but sensible of grief,
My reasonable part produces
How I may 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
plague of each calamity.
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 glue themselves in sociable grief,
true, inseparable, faithful loves,
Sticking together in calamity.
To England, if you will.
Bind up your hairs.
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,
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;
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
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
I behold my pretty Arthur more.
You hold too heinous a respect of grief.
He talks to me that never had a son.
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