Thou art not holy to belie me so. You are not sacred enough to lie to me like that.

I am not mad; this hair I tear is mine. I am not insane. ???

My name is Constance; I was Geoffrey’s wife. My name is Constance. I was the King’s wife until he died.

Young Arthur is my son, and he is lost! Arthur is my son and he is gone forever.

I am not mad. I would to God I were, I am not insane. I pray to God that I was

For then ’tis like I should forget myself. Because then it is most likely that I would forget myself

O, if I could, what grief should I forget! Oh! If I could be mad, I would forget this vast amount of sorrow.

Preach some philosophy to make me mad, If you teach me the science of truth, then I will go insane

And thou shalt be canonized, cardinal. And you will be made into a saint, pastor.

For, being not mad but sensible of grief, Because, since I am not insane rather I am aware of my sadness,

My reasonable part produces reason My brain is reasonable on

How I may be delivered of these woes, how I might be released from this insane grief

And teaches me to kill or hang myself. and that reason says I should hang myself.

If I were mad, I should forget my son, If I were insane I would forget Arthur

Or madly think a babe of clouts were he. Or think he was a doll

I am not mad. Too well, too well I feel I am not insane.

The different plague of each calamity. I feel the waves of every one of my sorrows way too well.
I just found out from a lowly soldier that my son has been taken prisoner by France. I just lost my husband, my son winning this war

was my only chance at a stable and secure life. He was all I had, the only person who hadn’t failed me yet. The most perfect, most

endearing, most fit for the crown boy that I have ever met. And now he is surely going to die, probably after being tortured. And

everyone who could do something about it, doesn’t care. They’ve turned their back on me over and over and now they tell me to calm

down. They have never had children, they are the reason this happened and they are telling ME TO CALM DOWN. FUCK THEM.

NO. And now they are saying I am insane. As if losing my son were not enough to make me feel this way. They are belittling me and

making my emotions invalid.

In the room: King Philip of France, Lewis the prince of France, Pandolph the cardinal, and three servants.

Environment: The French Camp, a war room. There are maps everywhere, it is freezing. Little figurines scattered across a table in

the center of the room. The room is filled with gray and brown. The men stand grouped together, above me.