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ACT III.

A WOMAN'S FEARS. Thou shalt be punish'd for thus frighting me, For I am sick, and capable* of fears; Oppress'd with wrongs, and therefore full of fears; A widow, husbandless, subject to fears; 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.

TOKENS OF GRIEF.

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 peeringt 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. A MOTHER'S FONDNESS FOR A BEAUTIFUL CHILD,

If thou, that bidst me be content, wert grim, Ugly, and sland'rous 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; Susceptible.

+ Appearing #Unsightly.

§ Portentous.

Of nature's gifts thou mayst with lilies boast,
And with the half-blown rose.

GRIEF.

I will instruct my sorrows to be proud; For grief is proud, and makes his owner stout.

COWARDICE AND PERJURY.

O Lymoges! O Austria! thou dost shame That bloody spoil: Thou slave, thou wretch, thou Thou little valiant, great in villany!

[coward: Thou ever strong upon

the stronger

side! Thou fortune's champion, that dost never fight But when her humorous ladyship is by To teach thee safety! thou art perjur'd too, And sooth’st up greatness. What a fool art thou, A ramping fool; to brag, and stamp, and swear, Upon my party! Thou cold-blooded slave, Hast thou not spoke like thunder on my side? Been sworn my soldier? bidding me depend Upon thy stars, thy fortune, and thy strength? And dost thou now fall over to my foes ? Thou wear a lion's hide! doff* it for shame, And hang a calf's skin on those recreant limbs.

THE HORRORS OF A CONSPIRACY.
I had a thing to say-But let it go:
The sun is in the heaven, and the proud day,
Attended with the pleasures of the world,
Is all too wanton, and too full of gawdst,
To give me audience:-If the midnight bell
Did, with his iron tongue and brazen mouth,
Sound out unto the drowsy race of night;

* Do off.

+ Showy ornaments.

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If this same were a churchyard where we stand,
And thou possessed with a thousand wrongs;
Or if that surly spirit, melancholy,
Had bak'd thy blood, and made it heavy, thick;
(Which, else, runs tickling up and down the veins,
Making that idiot, laughter, keep men's eyes,
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 brooded watchful day,
I would into thy bosom pour my thoughts:-
But, ah, I will not.

APOSTROPHE TO DEATH.

O amiable, lovely death!
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;
And ring these fingers with thy household worms;
And stop

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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, 0, come to me!

A MOTHER'S RAVINGS.
I am not mad: this hair I tear, is mine;
My name is Constance; I was Geffrey's wife;

* Conception.

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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
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
The different plague of each calamity.

A MOTHER'S GRIEF FOR THE LOSS OF A SON.
Father cardinal, I have heard you say,
T'hat 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 gracioust 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.

Pand. You hold too heinous a respect of grief. Const. He talks to me, that never had a son. K.Phi. You are as fond of grief, as of your

child.

* Breathe.

+ Graceful.

Const. 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.

DESPONDENCY. There's nothing in this world can make me joy: Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale, Vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man.

STRENGTH OF DEPARTING DISEASES.

Before the curing of a strong disease, Even in the instant of repair and health, The fit is strongest ; evils that take leave, On their departure most of all show evil.

DANGER TAKES HOLD OF ANY SUPPORT. He, that stands upon a slippery place, Makes nice of no vile hold to stay him

up.

ACTIV.
ARTHUR'S PATHETIC SPEECHES TO HUBERT.
Methinks, nobody should be sad but I:
Yet, I remember, when I was in France,
Young gentlemen would be as sad as night,
Only for wantonness. By my christendom,
So I were out of prison, and kept sheep,
I should be as merry as the day is long.

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the heart? When your head did but I knit my handkerchief about your brows, [ache, (The best I had, a princess wrought it me),

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