_Const._ Thou art not holy to belie me so;[373] I am not mad: this hair I tear is mine; 45 My name is Constance; I was Geffrey'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, what grief should I forget! 50 Preach some philosophy to make me mad,[374] And thou shalt be canonized, cardinal;[374][375] For being not mad but sensible of grief,[374] My reasonable part produces reason[374] How I may be deliver'd of these woes,[374] 55 And teaches me to kill or hang myself:[374] If I were mad, I should forget my son,[374] Or madly think a babe of clouts were he:[374] I am not mad; too well, too well I feel The different plague of each calamity. 60 _K. Phi._ Bind up those tresses. O, what love I note[376] In the fair multitude of those her hairs![376] Where but by chance a silver drop hath fallen,[376] Even to that drop ten thousand wiry friends[376][377] Do glue themselves in sociable grief,[376] 65 Like true, inseparable, faithful loves,[376][378] Sticking together in calamity.[376] _Const._ To England, if you will.[376] _K. Phi._ Bind up your hairs.[376] _Const._ Yes, that I will; and wherefore will I do it?[376] I tore them from their bonds and cried aloud[376] 70 'O that these hands could so redeem my son,[376] As they have given these hairs their liberty!'[376] But now I envy at their liberty,[376] And will again commit them to their bonds,[376] Because my poor child is a prisoner.[376] 75 And, father cardinal, I have heard you say[379] That we shall see and know our friends in heaven: If that be true, I shall see my boy again;[380] For since the birth of Cain, the first male child, To him that did but yesterday suspire, 80 There was not such a gracious 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, 85 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. 90 _Const._ He talks to me that never had a son. _K. Phi._ You are as fond of grief as of your child.