Act One, Scene TwoEnter both the Mortimers, Warwicke, and Lancaster.
Tis true, the Bishop is in the tower,
And goods and body given to Gaveston.
What? will they tyrannize upon the Church?
Ah wicked king, accurssed Gaveston,
This ground which is corrupted with their steps,
Shall be their timeles sepulcher, or mine.
Wel, let that peevish Frenchman guard him sure,
Unlesse his brest be sword proofe he shall die.
How now, why droops the earle of Lancaster?
Wherfore is Guy of Warwicke discontent?
That villaine Gaveston is made an Earle.
I, and besides, lord Chamberlaine of the realme,
And secretary to, and lord of Man.
We may not, nor we will not suffer this. Mortimer.
Why post we not from hence to levie men?
My lord of Cornewall now, at every worde,
And happie is the man, whom he vouchsafes
For vailing of his bonnet one good looke.
Thus arme in arme, the king and he dooth marche:
Nay more, the guarde upon his lordship waites:
And all the court begins to flatter him.
Thus leaning on the shoulder of the king,
He nods, and scornes, and smiles at those that passe.
Doth no man take exceptions at the slave?
All stomack him, but none dare speake a word.
Ah that bewraies their basenes Lancaster,
Were all the Earles and Barons of my minde,
Weele hale him from the bosome of the king,
And at the court gate hang the pessant up,
Who swolne with venome of ambitious pride,
Will be the ruine of the realme and us.
Enter the [Arch] Bishop of Canterburie [and attendant].
Here comes my lord of Canterburies grace.
His countenance bewraies he is displeasd.
First were his sacred garments rent and torne,
Then laide they violent hands upon him, next
Himselfe imprisoned, and his goods asceasd,
This certifie the Pope, away, take horsse.
My lord, will you take armes against the king?
What neede I, God himselfe is up in armes,
When violence is offered to the church.
Then wil you joine with us that be his peeres
To banish or behead that Gaveston?
What els my lords, for it concernes me neere,
The Bishoprick of Coventrie is his.
Enter the Queene.
Madam, whether whither walks your majestie so fast?
Unto the forrest gentle Mortimer,
To live in greefe and balefull discontent,
For now my lord the king regardes me not,
But dotes upon the love of Gaveston.
He claps his cheekes, and hanges about his neck,
Smiles in his face, and whispers in his eares,
And when I come, he frownes, as who should say,
Go whether whither thou wilt seeing I have Gaveston.
Is it not straunge, that he is thus bewitcht?
Madam, returne unto the court againe:
That slie inveigling Frenchman weele exile,
Or lose our lives: and yet ere that day come,
The king shall lose his crowne, for we have power,
And courage to, to be revengde at full.
But yet lift not your swords against the king.
No, but weele lift Gaveston from hence.
And war must be the meanes, or heele stay stil.
Then let him stay, for rather then my lord
Shall be opprest by civill mutinies,
I wil endure a melancholie life,
And let him frollick with his minion.
My lords, to eaze all this, but heare me speake.
We and the rest that are his counsellers,
Will meete, and with a generall consent,
Confirme his banishment with our handes and seales.
What we confirme the king will frustrate.
Then may we lawfully revolt from him.
But say my lord, where shall this meeting bee?
At the new temple.
And in the meane time ile intreat you all,
To crosse to Lambeth, and there stay with me.
Come then lets away.
Farewell sweet Mortimer, and for my sake,
Forbeare to levie armes against the king.
I, if words will serve, if not, I must.