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Philip, King of France
: O fair affliction, peace. Constance
: No, no. I will not, having breath to cry:/ O that my tongue were in the thunder's mouth,/ Then with a passion would I shake the world,/ And rouse from sleep that fell anatomy/ Which cannot hear a Lady's feeble voice,/ Which scorns a modern invocation. Cardinal Pandulph
: Lady, you utter madness, and not sorrow. 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, what grief should I forget?/ Preach some philosophy to make me mad,/ And thou shalt be canoniz'd, Cardinal./ For, being not mad, but sensible of grief,/ My reasonable part produces reason/ How I may be deliver'd of these woes,/ And teaches me to kill or hang myself:/ If I were mad, I should forget my son,/ Or madly think a babe of clouts were he;/ I am not mad: too well, too well I feel, / The different plague of each calamity.