Act Two, Scene TwoEnter Edward, the Queene, Lancaster, Mortimer[junior], Warwicke, Penbrooke, Kent, attendants.
The winde is good, I wonder why he stayes,
I feare me he is wrackt upon the sea.
Look Lancaster how passionate he is,
And still his minde runs on his minion.
How now, what newes, is Gaveston arrivde?
Nothing but Gaveston, what means your grace?
You have matters of more waight to thinke upon,
The King of Fraunce sets foote in Normandie.
A trifle, weele expell him when
But tell me Mortimer, whats thy devise,
Against the stately triumph we decreed?
A homely one my lord, not worth the telling.
Prethee let me know it.
But seeing you are so desirous, thus it is:
A loftie Cedar tree faire flourishing,
On whose top-branches Kinglie Eagles pearch,
And by the barke a canker creepes me up,
And gets unto the highest bough of all,
The motto: Aeque tandem.
And what is yours my lord of Lancaster?
My lord, mines more obscure then Mortimers.
Plinie reports, there is a flying Fish,
Which all the other fishes deadly hate,
And therefore being pursued, it takes the aire:
No sooner is it up, but thers a foule,
That seaseth it: this fish my lord I beare,
The motto this: Undique mors est.
Proud Mortimer, ungentle Lancaster,
Is this the love you beare your soveraigne?
Is this the fruite your reconcilement beares?
Can you in words make showe of amitie,
And in your shields display your rancorous minds?
What call you this but private libelling,
Against the Earle of Cornewall and my brother?
Sweete husband be content, they all love you.
They love me not that hate my Gaveston.
I am that Cedar, shake me not too much,
And you the Eagles, sore ye nere so high,
I have the gesses that will pull you downe,
And Aeque tandem shall that canker crie,
Unto the proudest peere of Britanie:
Though thou comparst him to a flying Fish,
And threatenest death whether he rise or fall,
Tis not the hugest monster of the sea,
Nor fowlest Harpie that shall swallow him.
If in his absence thus he favors him,
What will he do when as he shall be present?
That shall wee see, looke where his lordship comes.
Welcome to Tinmouth, welcome to thy friend,
Thy absence made me droope, and pine away,
For as the lovers of faire Danae,
When she was lockt up in a brasen tower,
Desirde her more, and waxt outragious,
So did it sure with me: and now thy sight
Is sweeter farre, then was thy parting hence
Bitter and irkesome to my sobbing heart.
Sweet Lord and King, your speech preventeth mine,
Yet have I words left to expresse my joy:
The sheepeherd nipt with biting winters rage,
Frolicks not more to see the paynted springe,
Then I doe to behold your Majestie.
Will none of you salute my Gaveston?
Salute him? yes: welcome Lord Chamberlaine.
Welcome is the good Earle of Cornewall.
Welcome Lord governour of the Ile of Man.
Welcome maister secretarie.
Brother, doe you heare them?
Stil wil these Earles and Barrons use me thus?
My Lord I cannot brooke these injuries.
Aye me poore soule when these begin to jarre.
Returne it to their throtes, ile be thy warrant.
Base leaden Earles that glorie in your birth,
Goe sit at home and eate your tenants beefe:
And come not here to scoffe at Gaveston,
Whose mounting thoughts did never creepe so low,
As to bestow a looke on such as you.
Yet I disdaine not to doe this for you.
Treason, treason: whers the traitor?
Convey hence Gaveston, thaile murder him.
The life of thee shall salve this foule disgrace.
Villaine thy life, unlesse I misse mine aime.
Ah furious Mortimer what hast thou done?
No more then I would answere were he slaine.
[Exit Gaveston, attended.]
Yes more then thou canst answer though he live,
Deare shall you both abie this riotous deede:
Out of my presence, come not neere the court.
Ile not be barde the court for Gaveston.
Weele haile him by the eares unto the block.
Looke to your owne heads, his is sure enough.
Looke to your owne crowne, if you back him thus.
Warwicke, these words do ill beseeme thy years.
Nay all of them conspire to crosse me thus,
But if I live, ile tread upon their heads,
That thinke with high lookes thus to tread me down.
Come Edmund lets away, and levie men,
Tis warre that must abate these Barons pride.
Exit the King [, Queene, and Kent].
Lets to our castels, for the king is moovde.
Moov'd may he be, and perish in his wrath.
Cosin it is no dealing with him now,
He meanes to make us stoope by force of armes,
And therefore let us jointlie here protest,
To prosecute that Gaveston to the death.
By heaven, the abject villaine shall not live.
Ile have his bloud, or die in seeking it.
The like oath Penbrooke takes.
And so doth Lancaster:
Now send our Heralds to defie the King,
And make the people sweare to put him downe.
Enter a Poast.
Letters, from whence?
From Scotland my lord.
Why how now cosin, how fares all our friends?
My unckles taken prisoner by the Scots.
Weel have him ransomd man, be of good cheere.
They rate his ransome at five thousand pound.
Who should defray the money, but the King,
Seeing he is taken prisoner in his warres?
Ile to the King.
Do cosin, and ile beare thee companie.
Meane time my lord of Penbrooke and my selfe,
Will to Newcastell heere, and gather head.
About it then, and we will follow you.
Be resolute, and full of secrecie.
I warrant you.
Cosin, and if he will not ransome him,
Ile thunder such a peale into his eares,
As never subject did unto his King.
Content, ile beare my part, holla whose there?
[Enter a Guard.]
I marry, such a garde as this dooth well.
Lead on the way.
Whither will your lordships?
Whither else but to the King.
His highnes is disposde to be alone.
Why, so he may, but we will speake to him.
You may not in, my lord.
May we not?
[Enter the King and Kent.]
How now, what noise is this?
Who have we there, ist you?
[Offers to go back.]
Nay, stay my lord, I come to bring you newes,
Mine unckles taken prisoner by the Scots.
Then ransome him.
Twas in your wars, you should ransome him.
And you shall ransome him, or else--
What Mortimer, you will not threaten him?
Quiet your self, you shall have the broad seale,
To gather for him thoroughout the realme.
Your minion Gaveston hath taught you this.
My lord, the familie of the Mortimers
Are not so poore, but would they sell their land,
Would levie men enough to anger you.
We never beg, but use such praiers as these.
[Lays hand on sword.]
Shall I still be haunted thus?
Nay, now you are heere alone, ile speake my minde.
And so will I, and then my lord farewell.
The idle triumphes, maskes, lascivious showes
And prodigall gifts bestowed on Gaveston,
Have drawne thy treasure drie, and made thee weake,
The murmuring commons overstretched hath.
Lancaster. Looke for rebellion, looke to be deposde,
Thy garrisons are beaten out of Fraunce,
And lame and poore, lie groning at the gates,
The wilde Oneyle, with swarmes of Irish Kernes,
Lives uncontroulde within the English pale,
Unto the walles of Yorke the Scots made rode,
And unresisted, drave away riche spoiles.
The hautie Dane commands the narrow seas,
While in the harbor ride thy ships unrigd.
What forraine prince sends thee embassadors?
Who loves thee? but a sort of flatterers.
Thy gentle Queene, sole sister to Valoys,
Complaines, that thou hast left her all forlorne.
Thy court is naked, being bereft of those,
That makes a king seeme glorious to the world,
I meane the peeres, whom thou shouldst dearly love:
Libels are cast againe thee in the streete,
Ballads and rimes, made of thy overthrow.
The Northren borderers seeing their houses burnt,
Their wives and children slaine, run up and downe,
Cursing the name of thee and Gaveston.
When wert thou in the field with banner spred?
But once , and then thy souldiers marcht like players,
With garish robes, not armor, and thy selfe
Bedaubd with golde, rode laughing at the rest,
Nodding and shaking of thy spangled crest,
Where womens favors hung like labels downe.
And thereof came it, that the fleering Scots,
To Englands high disgrace, have made this Jig,
Maids of England, sore may you moorne,
For your lemmons you have lost, at Bannocks borne,
With a heave and a ho,
What weeneth the king of England,
So soone to have woone Scotland,
With a rombelow.
Wigmore shall flie, to set my unckle free.
And when tis gone, our swordes shall purchase more.
If ye be moov'de, revenge it as you can,
Looke next to see us with our ensignes spred.
My swelling hart for very anger breakes,
How oft have I beene baited by these peeres?
And dare not be revengde, for their power is great:
Yet, shall the crowing of these cockerels,
Affright a Lion? Edward, unfolde thy pawes,
And let their lives bloud slake thy furies hunger:
If I be cruell, and growe tyrannous,
Now let them thanke themselves, and rue too late.
My lord, I see your love to Gaveston,
Will be the ruine of the realme and you,
For now the wrathfull nobles threaten warres,
And therefore brother banish him for ever.
Art thou an enemie to my Gaveston?
I, and it greeves me that I favoured him.
Traitor be gone, whine thou with Mortimer.
So will I, rather then with Gaveston.
Out of my sight, and trouble me no more.
No marvell though thou scorne thy noble peeres,
When I thy brother am rejected thus.
Poore Gaveston, that hast no friend but me,
Do what they can, weele live in Tinmoth here,
And so I walke with him about the walles,
What care I though the Earles begirt us round?
Heere comes she thats cause of all these jarres.
Enter the Queene, three Ladies [, one of these Neece to the king, Gaveston], Baldock, and Spencer.
My lord, tis thought, the Earles are up in armes.
I, and tis likewise thought you favour him.
Thus do you still suspect me without cause.
Sweet unckle speake more kindly to the queene.
My lord, dissemble with her, speake her faire.
Pardon me sweet, I forgot my selfe.
Your pardon is quicklie got of Isabell.
The yonger Mortimer is growne so brave,
That to my face he threatens civill warres.
Why do you not commit him to the tower?
I dare not, for the people love him well.
Why then weele have him privilie made away.
Would Lancaster and he had both carroust,
A bowle of poison to each others health:
But let them go, and tell me what are these.
Two of my fathers servants whilst he liv'de,
Mait please your grace to entertaine them now.
Tell me, where wast thou borne?What is thine armes?
My name is Baldock, and my gentrie
If fetcht rom Oxford, not from Heraldrie.
The fitter art thou Baldock for my turne,
Waite on me, and ile see thou shalt not want.
I humblie thanke your majestie.
Knowest thou him Gaveston?
I my lord,
His name is Spencer, he is well alied,
For my sake let him waite upon your grace,
Scarce shall you finde a man of more desart.
Then Spencer waite upon me, for his sake
Ile grace thee with a higher stile ere long.
No greater titles happen unto me,
Then to be favoured of your majestie.
Cosin, this day shalbe your mariage feast,
And Gaveston, thinke that I love thee well,
To wed thee to our neece, the onely heire
Unto the Earle of Gloster late deceased.
I know my lord, many will stomack me,
But I respect neither their love nor hate.
The head-strong Barons shall not limit me.
He that I list to favour shall be great:
Come lets away, and when the mariage ends,
Have at the rebels, and their complices.