Constance

Austria, to Arthur
Upon thy cheek lay I this zealous kiss
As seal to this indenture of my love:
That to my home I will no more return
Till Angiers and the right thou hast in France,
Together with that pale, that white-faced shore,
Whose foot spurns back the ocean’s roaring tides
And coops from other lands her islanders,
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Dauphin
King John, this is the very sum of all:
England and Ireland, Anjou,  Touraine, Maine,
In right of Arthur do I claim of thee.
Wilt thou resign them and lay down thy arms?
King John
My life as soon! I do defy thee, France.—
Arthur of Brittany, yield thee to my hand,
And out of my dear love I’ll give thee more
Than e’er the coward hand of France can win.
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Constance, to Salisbury
Gone to be married? Gone to swear a peace?
False blood to false blood joined? Gone to be friends?
Shall Louis have Blanche and Blanche 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.
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Constance
If thou that bidd’st 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,
Patched 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,
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King Philip, to Blanche
‘Tis true, fair daughter, and this blessèd day
Ever in France shall be kept festival.
To solemnize this day the glorious sun
Stays in his course and plays the alchemist,
Turning with splendor of his precious eye
The meager cloddy earth to glittering gold.
The yearly course that brings this day about
Shall never see it but a holy day.
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Austria
Lady Constance, peace.
Constance
War, war, no peace! Peace is to me a war.
O Limoges, 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,
Thou Fortune’s champion, that dost never fight
But when her humorous Ladyship is by
To teach thee safety.
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King Philip
Patience, good lady. Comfort, gentle Constance.
Constance
No, I defy all counsel, all redress,
But that which ends all counsel, true redress.
Death, 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,
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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 Geoffrey’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,
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King Philip
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,
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