And made his majesty the bawd to theirs. France is a bawd to Fortune and King John, That strumpet Fortune, that usurping John! Tell me, thou fellow, is not France forsworn? Envenom him with words, or get thee gone And leave those woes alone which I alone Am bound to under-bear. Pardon me, madam, I may not go without you to the kings. Thou mayst, thou shalt; I will not go with thee: I will instruct my sorrows to be proud; For grief is proud and makes his owner stoop. To me and to the state of my great grief Let kings assemble; for my grief's so great That no supporter but the huge firm earth Can hold it up: here I and sorrows sit; Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it. 'Tis true, fair daughter; and this blessed day Ever in France shall be kept festival: To solemnize this day the glorious sun Stays in his course and plays the alchemist, Turning with splendor of his precious eye The meagre cloddy earth to glittering gold: The yearly course that brings this day about Shall never see it but a holiday. A wicked day, and not a holy day! What hath this day deserved? what hath it done, That it in golden letters should be set Among the high tides in the calendar? Nay, rather turn this day out of the week, This day of shame, oppression, perjury. Or, if it must stand still, let wives with child Pray that their burthens may not fall this day, Lest that their hopes prodigiously be cross'd: But on this day let seamen fear no wreck; No bargains break that are not this day made: This day, all things begun come to ill end, Yea, faith itself to hollow falsehood change! By heaven, lady, you shall have no cause To curse the fair proceedings of this day: Have I not pawn'd to you my majesty? You have beguiled me with a counterfeit Resembling majesty, which, being touch'd and tried, Proves valueless: you are forsworn, forsworn; You came in arms to spill mine enemies' blood, But now in arms you strengthen it with yours: The grappling vigour and rough frown of war Is cold in amity and painted peace, And our oppression hath made up this league. Arm, arm, you heavens, against these perjured kings! A widow cries; be husband to me, heavens! Let not the hours of this ungodly day Wear out the day in peace; but, ere sunset, Set armed discord 'twixt these perjured kings! Hear me, O, hear me! Lady