Edward the Second Part 3

_Re-enter_ LANCASTER, WARWICK, PEMBROKE, _the elder_ MORTIMER, _and the younger_ MORTIMER.

_Lan._ Look, where the sister of the king of France Sits wringing of her hands and beats her breast!

_War._ The king, I fear, hath ill-treated her.

_Pem._ Hard is the heart that injures such a saint.

_Y. Mor._ I know 'tis 'long of Gaveston she weeps.

_E. Mor._ Why, he is gone.

_Y. Mor._ Madam, how fares your grace?

_Q. Isab._ Ah, Mortimer, now breaks the king's hate forth, And he confesseth that he loves me not!

_Y. Mor._ Cry quittance, madam, then, and love not him.

_Q. Isab._ No, rather will I die a thousand deaths: And yet I love in vain; he'll ne'er love me.

_Lan._ Fear ye not, madam; now his minion's gone, His wanton humour will be quickly left.

_Q. Isab._ O, never, Lancaster! I am enjoin'd, To sue unto you all for his repeal: This wills my lord, and this must I perform, Or else be banish'd from his highness' presence.

_Lan._ For his repeal, madam! he comes not back, Unless the sea cast up his shipwreck'd body.

_War._ And to behold so sweet a sight as that, There's none here but would run his horse to death.

_Y. Mor._ But, madam, would you have us call him home?

_Q. Isab._ Ay, Mortimer, for, till he be restor'd, The angry king hath banish'd me the court; And, therefore, as thou lov'st and tender'st me, Be thou my advocate unto these peers.

_Y. Mor._ What, would you have me plead for Gaveston?

_E. Mor._ Plead for him that will, I am resolv'd.

_Lan._ And so am I, my lord: dissuade the queen.

_Q. Isab._ O, Lancaster, let him dissuade the king!

For 'tis against my will he should return.

_War._ Then speak not for him; let the peasant go.

_Q. Isab._ 'Tis for myself I speak, and not for him.

_Pem._ No speaking will prevail; and therefore cease.

_Y. Mor._ Fair queen, forbear to angle for the fish Which, being caught, strikes him that takes it dead; I mean that vile torpedo, Gaveston, That now, I hope, floats on the Irish seas.

_Q. Isab._ Sweet Mortimer, sit down by me a while, And I will tell thee reasons of such weight As thou wilt soon subscribe to his repeal.

_Y. Mor._ It is impossible: but speak your mind.

_Q. Isab._ Then, thus;--but none shall hear it but ourselves.

[_Talks to Y. Mor. apart._ _Lan._ My lords, albeit the queen win Mortimer, Will you be resolute and hold with me?

_E. Mor._ Not I, against my nephew.

_Pem._ Fear not; the queen's words cannot alter him.

_War._ No? do but mark how earnestly she pleads!

_Lan._ And see how coldly his looks make denial!

_War._ She smiles: now, for my life, his mind is chang'd!

_Lan._ I'll rather lose his friendship, I, than grant.

_Y. Mor._ Well, of necessity it must be so.-- My lords, that I abhor base Gaveston I hope your honours make no question.

And therefore, though I plead for his repeal, 'Tis not for his sake, but to our avail; Nay, for the realm's behoof, and for the king's.

_Lan._ Fie, Mortimer, dishonour not thyself!

Can this be true, 'twas good to banish him?

And is this true, to call him home again?

Such reasons make white black, and dark night day.

_Y. Mor._ My Lord of Lancaster, mark the respect.

_Lan._ In no respect can contraries be true.

_Q. Isab._ Yet, good my lord, hear what he can allege.

_War._ All that he speaks is nothing; we are resolv'd.

_Y. Mor._ Do you not wish that Gaveston were dead?

_Pem._ I would he were!

_Y. Mor._ Why, then, my lord, give me but leave to speak.

_E. Mor._ But, nephew, do not play the sophister.

_Y. Mor._ This which I urge is of a burning zeal To mend the king and do our country good.

Know you not Gaveston hath store of gold, Which may in Ireland purchase him such friends As he will front the mightiest of us all?

And whereas he shall live and be belov'd, 'Tis hard for us to work his overthrow.

_War._ Mark you but that, my lord of Lancaster.

_Y. Mor._ But, were he here, detested as he is, How easily might some base slave be suborn'd To greet his lordship with a poniard, And none so much as blame the murderer, But rather praise him for that brave attempt, And in the chronicle enrol his name For purging of the realm of such a plague!

_Pem._ He saith true.

_Lan._ Ay, but how chance this was not done before?

_Y. Mor._ Because, my lords, it was not thought upon.

Nay, more, when he shall know it lies in us To banish him, and then to call him home, 'Twill make him vail the top flag of his pride, And fear to offend the meanest n.o.bleman.

_E. Mor._ But how if he do not, nephew?

_Y. Mor._ Then may we with some colour rise in arms; For, howsoever we have borne it out, 'Tis treason to be up against the king; So shall we have the people of our side, Which, for his father's sake, lean to the king, But cannot brook a night-grown mushroom, Such a one as my Lord of Cornwall is, Should bear us down of the n.o.bility: And, when the commons and the n.o.bles join, 'Tis not the king can buckler Gaveston; We'll pull him from the strongest hold he hath.

My lords, if to perform this I be slack, Think me as base a groom as Gaveston.

_Lan._ On that condition Lancaster will grant.

_War._ And so will Pembroke and I.

_E. Mor._ And I.

_Y. Mor._ In this I count me highly gratified, And Mortimer will rest at your command.

_Q. Isab._ And when this favour Isabel forgets, Then let her live abandon'd and forlorn.-- But see, in happy time, my lord the king, Having brought the Earl of Cornwall on his way, Is new return'd. This news will glad him much: Yet not so much as me; I love him more Than he can Gaveston: would he lov'd me But half so much! then were I treble-blest.

_Re-enter_ KING EDWARD, _mourning._

_K. Edw._ He's gone, and for his absence thus I mourn: Did never sorrow go so near my heart As doth the want of my sweet Gaveston; And, could my crown's revenue bring him back, I would freely give it to his enemies, And think I gain'd, having bought so dear a friend.

_Q. Isab._ Hark, how he harps upon his minion!

_K. Edw._ My heart is as an anvil unto sorrow, Which beats upon it like the Cyclops' hammers, And with the noise turns up my giddy brain, And makes me frantic for my Gaveston.

Ah, had some bloodless Fury rose from h.e.l.l, And with my kingly sceptre struck me dead, When I was forc'd to leave my Gaveston!

_Lan. Diablo,_ what pa.s.sions call you these?

_Q. Isab._ My gracious lord, I come to bring you news.

_K. Edw._ That you have parled with your Mortimer?

_Q. Isab._ That Gaveston, my lord, shall be repeal'd.

_K. Edw._ Repeal'd! the news is too sweet to be true.

_Q. Isab._ But will you love me, if you find it so?

_K. Edw._ If it be so, what will not Edward do?

_Q. Isab._ For Gaveston, but not for Isabel.

_K. Edw._ For thee, fair queen, if thou lov'st Gaveston; I'll hang a golden tongue about thy neck, Seeing thou hast pleaded with so good success.

_Q. Isab._ No other jewels hang about my neck Than these, my lord; nor let me have more wealth Than I may fetch from this rich treasury.

O, how a kiss revives poor Isabel!

_K. Edw._ Once more receive my hand; and let this be A second marriage 'twixt thyself and me.

_Q. Isab._ And may it prove more happy than the first!

My gentle lord, bespeak these n.o.bles fair, That wait attendance for a gracious look, And on their knees salute your majesty.

_K. Edw._ Courageous Lancaster, embrace thy king; And, as gross vapours perish by the sun, Even so let hatred with thy sovereign's smile: Live thou with me as my companion.

_Lan._ This salutation overjoys my heart.

_K. Edw._ Warwick shall be my chiefest counsellor: These silver hairs will more adorn my court Than gaudy silks or rich embroidery.

Chide me, sweet Warwick, if I go astray.

_War._ Slay me, my lord, when I offend your grace.

_K. Edw._ In solemn triumphs and in public shows Pembroke shall bear the sword before the king.

_Pem._ And with this sword Pembroke will fight for you.

_K. Edw._ But wherefore walks young Mortimer aside?

Be thou commander of our royal fleet; Or, if that lofty office like thee not, I make thee here Lord Marshal of the realm.

_Y. Mor._ My lord, I'll marshal so your enemies, As England shall be quiet, and you safe.

_K. Edw._ And as for you, Lord Mortimer of Chirke, Whose great achievements in our foreign war Deserve no common place nor mean reward, Be you the general of the levied troops That now are ready to a.s.sail the Scots.

_E. Mor._ In this your grace hath highly honour'd me, For with my nature war doth best agree.