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,
Stufts 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 than you do.— I will not keep this form upon my head, When there is such disorder in my wit.
[Tearing off her head dress. O lord
my boy, my Arthur, my fair son
My life, my joy, my food, my all the world ! My widow-comfort, and my sorrow's cure : K. Phi. I fear some outrage, and I’ll follow her.” The frightful spectacle, of acute mania pursuing its course to a fatal end, was no attractive subject for dramatic represen tation. Shakespeare exhibited the growing horror to the extreme limit which decent regard to human weakness permitted, and then mercifully drew the veil. The spectacle of sleepless nights and restless days, of fierce raving and desperate outrage until exhausted nature sinks, this he could not and would not exhibit to the public gaze. In one short line alone he tells the end,
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“The Lady Constance in a frenzy died.” This concealment of the horrors of furious mania, although their existence is indicated, has its parallel in the treatment of the death of the Queen in Cymbeline. The strong mind of this bad woman, one who “bears down all with her brain,” is
lost in maniacal frenzy, brought on by the disappointment of her schemes. She lies “upon a desperate bed,” with “A fever from the absence of her son ;
Madness of which her life's in danger.”
The horror of the desperate bed is withheld. Its termination only is recorded with the frenzied confession of her wickedness. In the flush of victory, the King is accosted by Cornelius, the
