Act Four, Scene TwoEnter the Queene and her sonne.
A boye, our friends do faile us all in Fraunce,
The lords are cruell, and the king unkinde,
What shall we doe?
Madam, returne to England,
And please my father well, and then a Fig
For all my unckles frienship here in Fraunce.
I warrant you, ile winne his highnes quicklie,
A loves me better than a thousand Spencers.
A boye, thou art deceivde at least in this,
To thinke that we can yet be tun'd together,
No, no, we jarre too farre. Unkinde Valoys,
Unhappie Isabell, when Fraunce rejects,
whether, O whether doost thou bend thy steps?
Enter sir John of Henolt.
Madam, what cheere?
A good sir John of Henolt,
Never so cheereles, nor so farre distrest.
I heare sweete lady of the kings unkindenes,
But droope not madam, noble mindes contemne
Despaire: will your grace with me to Henolt,
And there stay times advantage with your sonne?
How say you my Lord, will you go with your friends,
And shake off all our fortunes equallie?
So pleaseth the Queene my mother, me it likes.
The king of England, nor the court of Fraunce,
Shall have me from my gratious mothers side,
Till I be strong enough to breake a staffe,
And then have at the proudest Spencers head.
Well said my lord.
Oh my sweet hart, how do I mone thy wrongs,
Yet triumphe in the hope of thee my joye?
Ah sweete sir John, even to the utmost verge
of Europe, or the shore of Tanaise,
Will we with thee to Henolt, so we will.
The Marques is a noble Gentleman,
His grace I dare presume will welcome me,
But who are these?
Enter Edmund [earle of Kent] and Mortimer.
Madam, long may you live,
Much happier then your friends in England do.
Lord Edmund and lord Mortimer alive?
Welcome to Fraunce: the newes was heere my lord,
That you were dead, or very neare your death.
Lady, the last was truest of the twaine,
But Mortimer reservde for better hap,
Hath shaken off the thraldome of the tower,
And lives t'advance your standard good my lord.
How meane you, and the king my father lives ?
No my lord Mortimer, not I, I trow.
Not sonne, why not? I would it were no worse,
But gentle lords, friendles we are in Fraunce.
Mounsier le Grand, a noble friend of yours,
Tould us at our arrivall all the newes,
How hard the nobles, how unkinde the king
Hath shewed himself: but madam, right makes roome,
Where weapons awant, and though a many friends
Are made away, as Warwick, Lancaster,
And others of our partie and faction,
Yet have we friends, assure your grace, in England
Would cast up cappes, and clap their hands for joy,
To see us there appointed for our foes.
Would all were well, and Edward well reclaimd,
For Englands honor, peace, and quietnes.
But by the sword, my lord, it must be deserv'd.
The king will nere forsake his flatterers.
My Lords of England, sith the ungentle king
Of Fraunce refuseth to give aide of armes,
To this distressed Queene his sister heere,
Go you with her to Henolt: doubt yee not,
We will finde comfort, money, men, and friends
Ere long, to bid the English king a base.
How say yong Prince, what thinke you of the match ?
I thinke king Edward will out-run us all.
Nay sonne, not so, and you must not discourage
Your friends that are so forward in your aide.
Sir John of Henolt, pardon us I pray,
These comforts that you give our wofull queene,
Binde us in kindenes all at your commaund.
Yea gentle brother, and the God of heaven,
Prosper your happie motion good sir John.
This noble gentleman, forward in armes,
Was borne I see to be our anchor hold.
Sir John of Henolt, be it thy renowne,
That Englands Queene, and nobles in distresse,
Have beene by thee restored and comforted.
Madam along, and you my lord, with me,
That Englands peeres may Henolts welcome see.