Act One, Scene FourEnter Nobiles [: Lancaster, Warwicke, Penbrooke, Mortimer senior, Mortimer junior, the Archbishop of Canterburie, attended].
Here is the forme of Gavestons exile:
May it please your lordship to subscribe your name.
Give me the paper.
Quick quick my lorde, I long to write my name.
But I long more to see him banisht hence.
The name of Mortimer shall fright the king,
Unlesse he be declinde from that base pesant.
Enter the King and Gaveston [and Kent].
What? are you mov'd that Gaveston sits heere?
It is our pleasure, we will have it so.
Your grace doth wel to place him by your side,
For no where else the new earle is so safe.
What man of noble birth can brooke this sight?
Quam male conveniunt:
See what a scornfull looke the pesant casts.
Can kinglie Lions fawne on creeping Ants?
Ignoble vassaile that like Phaeton,
Aspir'st unto the guidance of the sunne.
Their downfall is at hand, their forces downe,
We will not thus be facst and overpeerd.
Lay hands on that traitor Mortimer.
Lay hands on that traitor Gaveston.
Is this the dutie that you owe your king?
We know our duties, let him know his peeres.
whether whither will you beare him, stay or ye shall die.
We are no traitors, therefore threaten not.
No, threaten not my lord, but pay them home.
Were I a king---
Thou villaine, wherfore talkes thou of a king,
That hardly art a gentleman by birth?
Were he a peasant, being my minion,
Ile make the prowdest of you stoope to him.
My lord, you may not thus disparage us,
Away I say with hatefull Gaveston.
And with the earle of Kent that favors him.
[Exeunt Kent and Gaveston guarded.]
Nay, then lay violent hands upon your king,
Here Mortimer, sit thou in Edwards throne,
Warwicke and Lancaster, weare you my crowne,
Was ever king thus over rulde as I?
Learne then to rule us better and the realme.
What we have done, our hart bloud shall maintaine.
Think you that we can brooke this upstart pride?
Anger and wrathfull furie stops my speech.
Why are you moov'd, be patient my lord,
And see what we your councellers have done.
My lords, now let us all be resolute,
And either have our wils, or lose our lives.
Meete you for this, proud overdaring peeres?
Ere my sweete Gaveston shall part from me,
This Ile shall fleete upon the Ocean,
And wander to the unfrequented Inde.
You know that I am legate to the Pope,
On your allegeance to the sea of Rome,
Subscribe as we have done to his exile.
Curse him, if he refuse, and then may we
Depose him and elect an other king.
I there it goes, but yet I will not yeeld,
Curse me, depose me, doe the worst you can.
Then linger not my lord but do it straight.
Remember how the Bishop was abusde,
Either banish him that was the cause thereof,
Or I will presentlie discharge these lords,
Of dutie and allegeance due to thee.
It bootes me not to threat, I must speake faire,
The Legate of the Pope will be obayd:
My lord, you shalbe Chauncellor of the realme,
Thou Lancaster, high admirall of our fleete,
Yong Mortimer and his unckle shalbe earles,
And you lord Warwick, president of the North,
And thou of Wales: if this content you not,
Make severall kingdomes of this monarchie,
And share it equally amongst you all,
So I may have some nooke or corner left,
To frolike with my deerest Gaveston.
Nothing shall alter us, wee are resolv'd.
Come, come, subscribe.
Why should you love him, whome the world hates so?
Because he loves me more then all the world:
Ah none but rude and savage minded men,
Would seeke the ruine of my Gaveston,
You that be noble borne should pitie him.
You that are princely borne should shake him off,
For shame subscribe, and let the lowne depart.
Urge him, my lord.
Are you content to banish him the realme?
I see I must, and therefore am content.
In steede of inke, ile write it with my teares.
The king is love-sick for his minion.
Tis done, and now accursed hand fall off.
Give it me, ile have it published in the streetes.
Ile see him presently dispatched away.
Now is my heart at ease.
And so is mine.
This will be good newes to the common sort.
Be it or no, he shall not linger here.
How fast they run to banish him I love,
They would not stir, were it to do me good:
Why should a king be subject to a priest?
Proud Rome, that hatchest such imperiall groomes,
For these thy superstitious taperlights,
Wherewith thy antichristian churches blaze,
Ile fire thy crased buildings, and enforce
The papall towers, to kisse the lowlie ground,
With slaughtered priests make Tibers channell swell,
And bankes raisd higher with their sepulchers:
As for the peeres that backe the cleargie thus,
If I be king, not one of them shall live.
My lord I heare it whispered every where,
That I am banishd, and must flie the land.
Tis true sweete Gaveston, oh were it false.
The Legate of the Pope will have it so,
And thou must hence, or I shall be deposd,
But I will raigne to be reveng'd of them,
And therefore sweete friend, take it patiently,
Live where thou wilt, ile send thee gould enough,
And long thou shalt not stay, or if thou doost,
Ile come to thee, my love shall neare decline.
Is all my hope turnd to this hell of greefe.
Rend not my hart with thy too piercing words,
Thou from this land, I from my selfe am banisht.
To go from hence, greeves not poore Gaveston,
But to forsake you, in whose gratious lookes
The blessednes of Gaveston remaines,
For no where else seekes he felicitie.
And onely this torments my wretched soule,
That whether I will or no thou must depart:
Be governour of Ireland in my stead,
And there abide till fortune call thee home.
Here take my picture, and let me weare thine,
O might I keepe thee heere, as I doe this,
Happie were I, but now most miserable.
Tis something to be pitied of a king.
Thou shalt not hence, ile hide thee Gaveston.
I shal be found, and then twil greeve me more.
Kinde wordes, and mutuall talke, makes our greefe greater,
Therefore with dum imbracement let us part.
Stay Gaveston, I cannot leave thee thus.
For every looke, my lord, drops downe a teare,
Seeing I must go, do not renew my sorrow.
The time is little that thou hast to stay,
And therefore give me leave to looke my fill,
But come sweete friend, ile beare thee on thy way.
The peeres will frowne.
I passe not for their anger, come lets go,
O that we might as well returne as goe.
Enter Queen Isabell.
whether goes my lord?
Fawne not on me French strumpet, get thee gone.
On whom but on my husband should I fawne?
On Mortimer, with whom ungentle Queen—
I say no more, judge you the rest my lord.
In saying this, thou wrongst me Gaveston,
Ist not enough, that thou corrupts my lord,
And art a bawd to his affections,
But thou must call mine honor thus in question?
I meane not so, your grace must pardon me.
Thou art too familiar with that Mortimer,
And by thy meanes is Gaveston exilde.
But I would wish thee reconcile the lords,
Or thou shalt nere be reconcild to me.
Your highnes knowes, it lies not in my power.
Away then, touch me not, come Gaveston.
Villaine, tis thou that robst me of my lord.
Madam, tis you that rob me of my lord.
Speake not unto her, let her droope and pine.
Wherein my lord, have I deservd these words?
Witnesse the teares that Isabella sheds,
Witnesse this hart, that sighing for thee breakes,
How deare my lord is to poore Isabell.
And witnesse heaven how deere thou art to me.
There weepe, for till my Gaveston be repeald,
Assure thy selfe thou comst not in my sight.
Exeunt Edward and Gaveston.
O miserable and distressed Queene!
Would when I left sweet France and was imbarkt,
That charming Circes walking on the waves,
Had chaungd my shape, or at the mariage day
The cup of Hymen had beene full of poyson,
Or with those armes that twind about my neck,
I had beene stifled, and not lived to see,
The king my lord thus to abandon me:
Like frantick Juno will I fill the earth,
With gastlie murmure of my sighes and cries,
For never doted Jove on Ganimed,
So much as he on cursed Gaveston.
But that will more exasperate his wrath,
I must entreat him, I must speake him faire,
And be a meanes to call home Gaveston:
And yet heele ever dote on Gaveston,
And so am I for ever miserable.
Enter the Nobles to the Queene.
Looke where the sister of the king of Fraunce,
Sits wringing of her hands, and beats her brest.
The king I feare hath ill intreated her.
Hard is the hart, that injures such a saint.
I know tis long of Gaveston she weepes.
Why? he is gone.
Madam, how fares your grace?
Ah Mortimer now breaks the kings hate forth,
And he confesseth that he loves me not.
Crie quittance Madam then, and love not him.
No, rather will I die a thousand deaths,
And yet I love in vaine, heele nere love me.
Feare ye not Madam, now his minions gone,
His wanton humor will be quicklie left.
O never Lancaster! I am injoynde,
To sue unto you all for his repeale:
This wils my lord, and this must I performe,
Or else be banisht from his highnesse presence.
For his repeale, Madam! he comes not back,
Unlesse the sea cast up his shipwrack body.
And to behold so sweete a sight as that,
Theres none here, but would run his horse to death.
But madam, would you have us cal him home?
I Mortimer, for till he be restorde,
The angrie king hath banished me the court:
And therefore as thou lovest and tendrest me,
Be thou my advocate unto these peeres.
What, would ye have me plead for Gaveston?
Plead for him he that will, I am resolvde.
And so am I my lord, diswade the Queene.
O Lancaster, let him diswade the king,
For tis against my will he should returne
Then speake not for him, let the pesant go.
Tis for my selfe I speake, and not for him.
No speaking will prevaile, and therefore cease.
Faire Queene forbeare to angle for the fish,
Which being caught, strikes him that takes it dead,
I meane that vile Torpedo, Gaveston,
That now I hope flotes on the Irish seas.
Sweete Mortimer, sit downe by me a while,
And I will tell thee reasons of such waighte,
As thou wilt soone subscribe to his repeale.
It is impossible, but speake your minde.
Then thus, but none shal heare it but our selves.
My Lords,albeit the Queen winne Mortimer,
Will you be resolute and hold with me?
Not I against my nephew.
Feare not, the queens words cannot alter him.
No? doe but marke how earnestly she pleads.
And see how coldly his lookes make deniall.
She smiles, now for my life his mind is changd.
Ile rather loose his friendship I, then graunt.
Well of necessitie it must be so.
My Lords, that I abhorre base Gaveston,
I hope your honors make no question,
And therefore though I pleade for his repeall,
Tis not for his sake, but for our availe:
Nay, for the realms behoofe and for the kings.
Fie Mortimer, dishonor not thy selfe,
Can this be true twas good to banish him,
And is this true to call him home againe?
Such reasons make white blacke, and darke night day.
My Lord of Lancaster, marke the respect.
In no respect can contraries be true.
Yet good my lord, heare what he can alledge.
All that he speakes, is nothing, we are resolv'd.
Do you not wish that Gaveston were dead?
I would he were.
Why then my lord, give me but leave to speak.
But nephew, do not play the sophister.
To mend the king, and do our countrie good:
Know you not Gaveston hath store of golde,
Which may in Ireland purchase him such friends,
As he will front the mightiest of us all,
And whereas he shall live and be belovde,
Tis hard for us to worke his overthrow.
Marke you but that my lord of Lancaster.
But were he here, detested as he is,
How easilie might some base slave be subbornd,
To greet his lordship with a poniard,
And none so much as blame the murtherer,
But rather praise him for that brave attempt,
And in the Chronicle, enrowle his name,
For purging of the realme of such a plague.
He saith true.
I, but how chance this was not done before?
Because my lords, it was not thought upon:
Nay more, when he shall know it lies in us,
To banish him, and then to call him home,
Twill make him vaile the topflagof his pride,
And feare to offend the meanest noble man.
But how if he do not Nephew?
Then may we with some colour rise in armes,
For howsoever we have borne it out,
Tis treason to be up against the king.
So shall we have the people of our side,
Which for his fathers sake leane to the king,
But cannot brooke a night growne mushrump,
Such a one as my Lord of Cornewall is,
Should beare us downe of the nobilitie,
And when the commons and the nobles joyne,
Tis not the king can buckler Gaveston,
Weele pull him from the strongest hould he hath
My lords, if to performe this I be slack,
Thinke me as base a groome as Gaveston.
On that condition Lancaster will graunt.
And so will Penbrooke and I.
And Mortimer will rest at your commaund.
And when this favour Isabell forgets,
Then let her live abandond and forlorne.
But see in happie time, my lord the king,
Having brought the Earle of Cornewall on his way,
Is new returnd, this newes will glad him much,
Yet not so much as me. I love him more
Then he can Gaveston, would he lov'd me
But halfe so much, then were I treble blest.
Enter king Edward moorning [attended].
Hees gone, and for his absence thus I moorne,
Did never sorrow go so neere my heart,
As dooth the want of my sweete Gaveston,
And could my crownes revenew bring him back,
I would freelie give it to his enemies,
And thinke I gaind, having bought so deare a friend.
Harke how he harpes upon his minion.
My heart is as an anvill unto sorrow,
Which beates upon it like the Cyclops hammers,
And with the noise turnes up my giddie braine,
And makes me frantick for my Gaveston:
Ah had some bloudlesse furie rose from hell,
And with my kinglie scepter stroke me dead,
When I was forst to leave my Gaveston.
Diablo, what passions call you these?
My gratious lord, I come to bring you newes.
That you have parled with your Mortimer
That Gaveston,my Lord,shalbe repeald.
Repeald, the newes is too sweet to be true.
But will you love me, if you finde it so?
If it be so, what will not Edward do?
For Gaveston, but not for Isabell.
For thee faire Queene, if thou lovest Gaveston,
Ile hang a golden tongue about thy neck,
Seeing thou hast pleaded with so good successe.
No other jewels hang about my neck
Then these my lord, nor let me have more wealth,
Then I may fetch from this ritch treasurie:
O how a kisse revives poore Isabell.
Once more receive my hand, and let this be,
A second mariage twixt thy selfe and me.
And may it proove more happie then the first.
My gentle lord, bespeake these nobles faire,
That waite attendance for a gratious looke,
And on their knees salute your majestie
Couragious Lancaster, imbrace thy king,
And as grosse vapours perish by the sunne,
Even so let hatred with thy soveraignes smile.
Live thou with me as my companion.
This salutation overjoyes my heart.
Warwickshalbe my chiefest counseller:
These silver haires will more adorne my court,
Then gaudie silkes, or rich imbrotherie.
Chide me sweete Warwick, if I go astray.
Slay me my lord, when I offend your grace.
In sollemne triumphes, and in publike showes,
Penbrooke shall beare the sword before the king.
And with this sword, Penbrooke wil fight for you.
But wherefore walkes yong Mortimer aside?
Be thou commaunder of our royall fleete,
Or if that loftie office like thee not,
I make thee heere lord Marshall of the realme.
My lord, ile marshall so your enemies,
As England shall be quiet, and you safe.
And as for you, lord Mortimer of England,
Whose great atchivements in our forrain warre,
Deserves no common place, nor meane reward:
Be you the generall of the levied troopes,
That now are readie to assaile the Scots.
In this your grace hath highly honoured me,
For with my nature warre doth best agree.
Now is the king of England riche and strong,
Having the love of his renowned peeres.
I Isabella nere was my heart so light.
Clarke of the crowne, direct our warrant forth,
For Gaveston to Ireland: Beamont flie,
As fast as Iris, or Joves Mercurie.
It shalbe done my gratious Lord.
[Exeunt Clarke and Beamont.]
Lord Mortimer, we leave you to your charge:
Now let us in, and feast it roiallie:
Against our friend the earle of Cornewall comes,
Weele have a generall tilt and turnament,
And then his mariage shalbe solemnized,
For wot you not that I have made him sure,
Unto our cosin, the earle of Glosters heire.
Such newes we heare my lord.
That day, if not for him,yet for my sake,
Who in the triumphe will be challenger,
Spare for no cost, we will requite your love.
In this, or ought, your highnes shall commaund us.
Thankes gentle Warwick, come lets in and revell.
Exeunt. Manent Mortimers.
Nephue, I must to Scotland, thou staiest here.
Leave now to oppose thy selfe against the king,
Thou seest by nature he is milde and calme,
And seeing his minde so dotes on Gaveston,
Let him without controulement have his will.
The mightiest kings have had their minions,
Great Alexander lovde Ephestion,
The conquering Hercules for Hilas wept,
And for Patroclus sterne Achillis droopt:
And not kings onelie, but the wisest men,
The Romaine Tullie loved wit="Q3">Octavius,
Grave Socrates, wilde Alcibiades:
Then let his grace, whose youth is flexible,
And promiseth as much as we can wish,
Freely enjoy that vaine light-headed earle,
For riper yeares will weane him from such toyes.
Unckle, his wanton humor greeves not me,
But this I scorne, that one so baselie borne,
Should by his soveraignes favour grow so pert,
And riote it with the treasure of the realme,
While souldiers mutinie for want of paie.
He weares a lords revenewe on his back,
And Midas like he jets it in the court,
With base outlandish cullions at his heeles,
Whose proud fantastick liveries make such show,
As if that Proteus god of shapes appearde.
I have not seene a dapper jack so briske,
He weares a short Italian hooded cloake,
Larded with pearle, and in his tuskan cap
A jewell of more value then the crowne.
Whiles other walke below, the king and he
From out a window, laugh at such as we,
And floute our traine, and jest at our attire:
Unckle, tis this that makes me impatient.
But nephew, now you see the king is changd.
Then so am I, and live to do him service,
But whiles I have a sword, a hand, a hart,
I will not yeeld to any such upstart.
You know my minde, come unckle lets away.