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Act Four, Scene Seven

Enter the Abbot, Monkes, Edward, Spencer, and Baldocke [disguised as monks].

Have you no doubt my Lorde, have you no feare,
As silent and as carefull will we be,
To keepe your royall person safe with us,
Free from suspect, and fell invasion
Of such as have your majestie in chase,
Your selfe, and those your chosen companie,
As daunger of this stormie time requires.

Father, thy face should harbor no deceit,
O hadst thou ever beene a king, thy hart
Pierced deeply with sence of my distresse,
Could not but take compassion of my state.
Stately and proud, in riches and in traine,
Whilom I was, powerfull and full of pompe,
But what is he, whome rule and emperie
Have not in life or death made miserable?
Come Spencer, come Baldocke, come sit downe by me,
Make triall now of that philosophie,
That in Our famous nurseries of artes
Thou suckedst from Plato, and from Aristotle.
Father, this life contemplative is heaven,
O that I might this life in quiet lead,
But we alas are chaste, and you my friends,
Your lives and my dishonor they pursue,
Yet gentle monkes, for treasure, golde nor fee,
Do you betray us and our companie.

Your grace may sit secure, if none but wee
Doe wot of your abode.

Not one alive, but shrewdly I suspect,
A gloomie fellow in a meade belowe,
A gave a long looke after us my lord,
And all the land I know is up in armes,
Armes that pursue our lives with deadly hate.

We were imbarkt for Ireland, wretched we,
With awkward windes, and sore tempests driven
To fall on shoare, and here to pine in feare
Of Mortimer and his confederates.
Edward. Mortimer, who talkes of Mortimer,
Who wounds me with the name of Mortimer
That bloudy man? good father on thy lap
Lay I this head, laden with mickle care,
O might I never open these eyes againe,
Never againe lift up this drooping head,
O never more lift up this dying hart!

Looke up my lord. Baldock, this drowsines
Betides no good, here even we are betraied.
Enter with Welch hookes, Rice ap Howell, a Mower, and the Earle of Leicester.

Upon my life, those be the men ye seeke.

Fellow enough: my lord I pray be short,
A faire commission warrants what we do.

The Queenes commission, urgd by Mortimer, [Aside.]

What cannot gallant Mortimer with the Queene?
Alas, see where he sits, and hopes unseene,
T'escape their hands that seeke to reave his life:
Too true it is, quem dies vidit veniens superbum,
Hunc dies vidit fugiens jacentem.
But Lecister leave to growe so passionate,
Spencer and Baldocke, by no other names,
I arrest you of high treason here,
Stand not on titles, but obay th'arrest,
Tis in the name of Isabell the Queene:
My lord, why droope you thus ?

O day! the last of all my blisse on earth,
Center of all misfortune. O my starres!
Why do you lowre unkindly on a king?
Comes Lecister then in Isabellas name,
To take my life, my companie from me?
Here man, rip up this panting brest of mine,
And take my heart, in reskew of my friends.

Away with them.

It may become thee yet,
To let us take our farewell of his grace.

My heart with pittie earnes to see this sight,
A king to beare these words and proud commaunds.

A sweet Spencer, thus then must we part.

We must my lord, so will the angry heavens.

Nay so will hell, and cruell Mortimer,
The gentle heavens have not to do in this.

My lord, it is in vaine to greeve or storme,
Here humblie of your grace we take our leaves,
Our lots are cast, I feare me so is thine.

In heaven wee may, in earth never shall wee meete, And
Lecister say, what shall become of us ?

Your majestie must go to Killingworth.

Must! tis somwhat hard, when kings must go.

Here is a Litter readie for your grace,
That waites your pleasure, and the day growes old.

As good be gon, as stay and be benighted.

A litter hast thou, lay me in a hearse,
And to the gates of hell convay me hence,
Let Plutos bels ring out my fatall knell,
And hags howle for my death at Charons shore,
For friends hath Edward none, but these, and these,
And these must die under a tyrants sword.

My lord, be going, care not for these,
For we shall see them shorter by the heads.

Well, that shalbe, shalbe: part we must,
Sweete Spencer, gentle Baldocke, part we must.
Hence fained weeds, unfained are my woes,
Father, farewell: Leister, thou staist for me,
And go I must, life farewell with my friends.
Exeunt Edward and Leicester.

O is he gone! is noble Edward gone,
Parted from hence, never to see us more!
Rent sphere of heaven, and fier forsake thy orbe,
Earth melt to ayre, gone is my soveraigne,
Gone, gone alas, never to make returne.

Spencer, I see our soules are fleeted hence,
We are deprivde the sun-shine of our life,
Make for a new life man, throw up thy eyes,
And hart and hand to heavens immortall throne,
Pay natures debt with cheerefull countenance,
Reduce we all our lessons unto this,
To die sweet Spencer, therefore live wee all,
Spencer, all live to die, and rise to fall.


Come, come, keepe these preachments till you come to the
place appointed. You, and such as you are, have made wise worke
in England.

Will your Lordships away?

Your worship I trust will remember me?

Remember thee fellow? what else?
Follow me to the towne.

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