The yearly course, that brings this day about, Con. [Rising.] A wicked day, and not a holy day! What hath this day deserv'd? what hath it done, K. Phil. By Heaven, lady, you shall have no cause To curse the fair proceedings of this day: Con. You have beguil'd me with a counterfeit, Resembling majesty; which, being touch'd, and try'd, Proves valueless: You are forsworn, forsworn; And our oppression hath made up this league :— Wear out the day in peace; but, ere sunset, Aust, Lady Constance, peace. Con. 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: Thou little valiant, great in villainy! Thou ever strong upon the stronger side! |