CONSTANCE

May be that John in conscience or in fear To offer wrong where you impugn the ill, Will send such calm conditions back to France, As shall rebate the edge of fearful wars: If so, forbearance is a deed well done. Yes (false intruder) if that joust be joust, And headstrong usurpation put apart, Arthur my Son, heir to thy elder Brother, Without ambiguous shadow of dissent, Is Sovereign to the substance thou withholdst. Why John, what canst thou give unto thy Niece, That hast no foot of land, but Arthurs right? What Kings, why stand you gazing in a trance? Why how now Lords? accursed Citizens To fill and tickle their ambitious ears, With hope of gain, that springs from Arthurs lose. Some dismal Planet at thy birthday reigned, For now I see the fallen of all thy Hope's. Ah boy, thy years I see are far too green To look into the bottom of-these cares. But I, who see the poise that weigheth down Thy weal, my wish, and all the willing means Wherewith thy fortune and thy fame should mount. What joy, what ease, what rest can lodge in me, With whom all hope and hap does disagree? If any Power will hear a widows plaint, That from a wounded soul implores revenge; Send fell contagion to infect this Climb, This cursed Country, where the traitors breath. Whose perjury as proud Briareus, Beleaguers all the Sky with misbelief. He promised Arthur, and he sware it too, To fence thy right, and check thy foeman's pride: But now black-spotted Perjure as he is, He takes a truce with Elnors damned brat, And marries Lews to her lovely Niece, Sharing thy fortune, and thy birthdays gift Between these lovers: ill betide the match. And as they shoulder thee from out thy own, And triumph in a widows tearful cares: So heavens cross them with a thriftless course. Is all the blood yspilt on either partly, Closing the cranies of the thirsty earth, Grown to a louegame and a Bridal feast? And must thy birthright hid the wedding banes? Poor helpless boy, hopeless and helpless too, To whom misfortune seems no yoke at all. Thy stay, thy state, thy imminent mishaps Wounds thy mother's thoughts with feeling care, Why lookest thou pale? the colour flies thy face, I trouble now the fountain of thy the that, And make it moody with my doles discourse, Go in with me, reply not lovely boy, We must obscure this moan with melody, Least worse wrack ensue our malcontent. Ungodly peace made by and others war. Thus hath the God of Kings with conquering arm Dispersed the foes to true succession. Proud, and disturber of thy Con reyes peace, Constance does live to came thine insolence, And on thy head will now avenged be For all the mischiefs hatched in thy brain. 'Tis not thy words proud Queen shall carry it. My time is now to triumph in thy fallen, And thou shalt know that Constance will triumph. No Elianor, my courage gathers strength, And Hope's to led both John and thee as slaves: And in that hope, I hale thee to the field. Beit er so soon, I shall not live so long. A Will indeed, a crabbed Woman's will, Wherein the Devil is and overseer, And proud dame Elnor sole Executress: More wills than so, on peril of my soul, Were never made to hinder Arthurs right. Beshrew you else how pitiful you are, Ready to weep to hear him ask his own; Sorrow betide such Grandames and such grief, That minister a poison for pure love. But who so blind, as cannot see this beam, That you forsooth would keep your cousin down, For fear his Mother should be used too well? I theres the griese, confusion catch the brain, That hammers shifts to stop a Princes reign. I, theres the wretch that broacheth all this ill, Why fly I not upon the Beldames face, And with my nails pull forth her hateful eyes. My tongue is tunde to story forth mishap: When did I breath to tell a pleasing tale? Must Constance speak? let tears prevent her talk: Must I discourse? let Did sighs and say, She weeps again to hear the wrack of Troy: Two words will serve, and then my tale is done: El ors proud brat hath robbed me of my Son.