. Complete works of William Shakespeare . on, spite of France ? Lew. What he hath won, that hath he fortified: 10So hot a speed with such advice disposed,Such temperate order in so fierce a cause,Doth want example: who hath read or heardOf any kindred action like to this ? [praise, K. Phi. Well could I bear that England had thisSo we could find some pattern of our shame. Enter Constance. Look, who comes here! a grave unto a soul; Holding the eternal spirit, against her will, In the vile prison of afflicted breath. 1 prithee, lady, go away with me. 20 Const. Lo, now! now see the issue of your p
. Complete works of William Shakespeare . on, spite of France ? Lew. What he hath won, that hath he fortified: 10So hot a speed with such advice disposed,Such temperate order in so fierce a cause,Doth want example: who hath read or heardOf any kindred action like to this ? [praise, K. Phi. Well could I bear that England had thisSo we could find some pattern of our shame. Enter Constance. Look, who comes here! a grave unto a soul; Holding the eternal spirit, against her will, In the vile prison of afflicted breath. 1 prithee, lady, go away with me. 20 Const. Lo, now! now see the issue of your peace. K. Phi. Patience, good lady! comfort, gentleConstance! Const. No, I defy ail 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 bonesAnd put my eye-balls in thy vaulty brows 30 And ring these fingers with thy household worms*5d 49. Act in. fung 3obn* And stop this gap of breath with fulsome dustAnd be a carrion monster like thyself:Come, grin on me, and I will think thou smilestAnd buss thee as thy wife. Miserys love,O, come to me! K. Phi. O fair affliction, peace! Const. No, no, I will not, having breath to cry iO, that my tongue were in the thunders mouth!Then with a passion would I shake the world;And rouse from sleep that fell anatomy 40 Which cannot hear a ladys feeble voice,Which scorns a modern invocation. Panel. Lady, you utter madness, and not sorrow. Const. Thou art not holy to belie me so;I am not mad: this hair I tear is mine;My name is Constance; I was Geffreys wife;Young Arthur is my son, and he is lost:I am not mad: I would to heaven I were!Eor then, t is like I should forget myself:O, if I could, what grief should I forget! 50 Preach some philosophy to make me mad,And thou shalt be canonized, cardinal;For being not mad but sensible of grief,My reasonable
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