Act Five, Scene SixEnter Mortimer and Matrevis [at different doors].
Ist done, Matrevis, and the murtherer dead?
I my good Lord, I would it were undone.
Matrevis, if thou now growest penitent
Ile be thy ghostly father, therefore choose,
whether thou wilt be secret in this,
Or else die by the hand of Mortimer.
Gurney,my lord, is fled, and will I feare,
Betray us both, therefore let me flie.
Flie to the Savages.
I humblie thanke your honour.
As for my selfe, I stand as Joves huge tree,
And others are but shrubs compard to me,
All tremble at my name, and I feare none,
Lets see who dare impeache me for his death ?
Enter the Queene.
A Mortimer, the king my sonne hath news,
His fathers dead, and we have murdered him.
What if he have? the king is yet a childe.
I, I, but he teares his haire, and wrings his handes,
And vowes to be revengd upon us both,
Into the councell chamber he is gone,
To crave the aide and succour of his peeres.
Aye me, see where he comes, and they with him,
Now Mortimer begins our tragedie.
Enter the King, with the lords.
Feare not my lord, know that you are a king.
How now my lord ?
Thinke not that I am frighted with thy words,
My father's murdered through thy treacherie,
And thou shalt die, and on his mournefull hearse,
Thy hatefull and accursed head shall lie,
To witnesse to the world, that by thy meanes,
His kingly body was too soone interrde.
Weepe not sweete sonne.
Forbid not me to weepe, he was my father,
And had you lov'de him halfe so well as I,
You could not beare his death thus patiently,
But you I feare, conspirde with Mortimer.
Why speake you not unto my lord the king?
Because I thinke scorne to be accusde,
Who is the man dare say I murdered him?
Traitor, in me my loving father speakes,
And plainely saith, twas thou that murdredst him.
But hath your grace no other proofe then this ?
Yes, if this be the hand of Mortimer.
False Gurney hath betraide me and himselfe.
I feard as much, murther cannot be hid.
Tis my hand, what gather you by this.
That thither thou didst send a murtherer.
What murtherer? bring foorth the man I sent.
A Mortimer, thou knowest that he is slaine,
And so shalt thou be too: why staies he heere?
Bring him unto a hurdle, drag him foorth,
Hang him I say, and set his quarters up,
But bring his head back presently to me.
For my sake sweete sonne pittie Mortimer.
Madam, intreat not, I will rather die,
Then sue for life unto a paltrie boye.
Hence with the traitor, with the murderer.
Base fortune, now I see, that in thy wheele
There is a point, to which when men aspire,
They tumble hedlong downe: that point I touchte,
And seeing there was no place to mount up higher,
Why should I greeve at my declining fall?
Farewell faire Queene, weepe not for Mortimer,
That scornes the world, and as a traveller,
Goes to discover countries yet unknowne.
What, suffer you the traitor to delay?
[Exit Mortimer with 1. Lord attended.]
As thou receivedst thy life from me,
Spill not the bloud of gentle Mortimer.
This argues, that you spilt my fathers bloud,
Els would you not intreate for Mortimer.
I spill his bloud ? no.
I, madam, you, for so the rumor runnes.
That rumor is untrue, for loving thee,
Is this report raisde on poore Isabell.
I doe not thinke her so unnaturall.
My lord, I feare me it will proove too true.
Mother, you are suspected for his death,
And therefore we commit you to the Tower,
Till further triall may be made thereof.
If you be guiltie, though I be your sonne,
Thinke not to finde me slack or pitifull.
Nay, to my death, for too long have I lived,
When as my sonne thinkes to abridge my daies.
Awaye with her, her wordes inforce these teares,
And I shall pitie her if she speake againe.
Shall I not moorne for my beloved lord,
And with the rest accompanie him to his grave?
Thus madam, tis the kings will you shall hence.
He hath forgotten me, stay, I am his mother.
That bootes not, therefore gentle madam goe.
Then come sweete death, and rid me of this greefe.
[Exit Queene and 2. Lord.]
My lord, here is the head of Mortimer.
Goe fetche my fathers hearse, where it shall lie,
And bring my funerall robes: accursed head,
Could I have rulde thee then, as I do now,
Thou hadst not hatcht this monstrous treacherie!
[Enter some with hearse.]
Heere comes the hearse, helpe me to moorne, my lords:
Sweete father heere, unto thy murdered ghost,
I offer up this wicked traitors head,
And let these teares distilling from mine eyes,
Be witnesse of my greefe and innocencie.