But now will canker sorrow eat my bud, And chase the native beauty from his cheek, As dim and meagre as an ague's fit; When I shall meet him in the court of heaven Pand. You hold too heinous a respect of grief. Const. He talks to me, that never had a son. K. Phi. You are as fond of grief, as of your child. Const. Grief fills the room up of my absent child, Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me; Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words, Remembers me of all his gracious parts, Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form; Then, have I reason to be fond of grief. Fare you well: had you such a loss as I, I could give better comfort 9 than you do. I will not keep this form upon my head, [Tearing off her head-dress. When there is such disorder in my wit. O lord! my boy, my Arthur, my fair son! My life, my joy, my food, my all the world! My widow-comfort, and my sorrows' cure! [Exit. K. Phi. I fear some outrage, and I'll follow her. [Exit. Lew. There's nothing in this world, can make me joy: 1 9 had you such a loss as I, I could give better comfort —] This is a sentiment which great sorrow always dictates. Whoever cannot help himself casts his eyes on others for assistance, and often mistakes their inability for coldJOHNSON. ness. There's nothing in this, &c.] The young prince feels his defeat with more sensibility than his father. Shame operates most strongly in the earlier years; and when can disgrace be less welcome than when a man is going to his bride? JOHNSON. Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale, Vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man; And bitter shame hath spoil'd the sweet world's taste, † Lew. All days of glory, joy, and happiness. Are not you griev'd, that Arthur is his prisoner? Thy foot to England's throne; and, therefore, mark. Lew. But what shall I gain by young Arthur's fall? +"sweet word's taste,"― Malone: who says that the sweet word is life. Pand. You, in the right of lady Blanch your wife, May then make all the claim that Arthur did. Lew. And lose it, life and all, as Arthur did. Pand. How green are you, and fresh in this old world! John lays you plots; the times conspire with you: Lew. May be, he will not touch young Arthur's life, But hold himself safe in his prisonment. Pand. O, sir, when he shall hear of your approach, If that young Arthur be not gone already, Of all his people shall revolt from him, Anon becomes a mountain. O noble Dauphin, |