Edward II

“My father is deceased! Come, Gaveston, And share the kingdom with thy dearest friend.” Ah, words that make me surfeit with delight! What greater bliss can hap to Gaveston Than live and be the favourite of a king! Sweet prince, I come! these, thy amorous lines Might have enforced me to have swum from France, And, like Leander, gasped upon the sand, So thou wouldst smile, and take me in thine arms. The sight of London to my exiled eyes Is as Elysium to a new-come soul: Not that I love the city or the men, But that it harbours him I hold so dear⁠— The king, upon whose bosom let me lie, And with the world be still at enmity. What need the arctic people love starlight, To whom the sun shines both by day and night? Farewell base stooping to the lordly peers! My knee shall bow to none but to the king. As for the multitude, that are but sparks, Raked up in embers of their poverty⁠— Tanti; I’ll fawn first on the wind, That glanceth at my lips, and flieth away. But how now! what are these?

Gaveston

Aside. Mort dieu!

King Edward

Well, Mortimer, I’ll make thee rue these words: Beseems it thee to contradict thy king? Frown’st thou thereat, aspiring Lancaster? The sword shall plane the furrows of thy brows, And hew these knees that now are grown so stiff. I will have Gaveston; and you shall know What danger ’tis to stand against your king.

Gaveston

Aside. Well done, Ned!

Lancaster

My lord, why do you thus incense your peers, That naturally would love and honour you, But for that base and obscure Gaveston? Four earldoms have I, besides Lancaster⁠— Derby, Salisbury, Lincoln, Leicester; These will I sell, to give my soldiers pay, Ere Gaveston shall stay within the realm: Therefore, if he be come, expel him straight.

Kent

Barons and earls, your pride hath made me mute; But know I’ll speak, and to the proof, I hope. I do remember, in my father’s days, Lord Percy of the North, being highly moved, Braved Mowbray in presence of the king; For which, had not his highness loved him well, He should have lost his head; but with his look The undaunted spirit of Percy was appeased, And Mowbray and he were reconciled: Yet dare you brave the king unto his face.⁠— Brother, revenge it, and let these their heads Preach upon poles, for trespass of their tongues.

Warwick

O, our heads!

King Edward

Ay, yours; and therefore I would wish you grant.

Warwick

Bridle thy anger, gentle Mortimer.

Younger Mortimer

My lord, you shall be Chancellor of the realm; Thou, Lancaster, High-Admiral of our fleet; Young Mortimer and his uncle shall be earls; And you, Lord Warwick, President of the North; And thou of Wales. If this content you not, Make several kingdoms of this monarchy, And share it equally amongst you all, So I may have some nook or corner left, To frolic with my dearest Gaveston.

Archbishop of Canterbury

Nothing shall alter us; we are resolved.

Lancaster

Come, come, subscribe.

Younger Mortimer

Why should you love him whom the world hates so?

King Edward

Because he loves me more than all the world. Ah, none but rude and savage-minded men Would seek the ruin of my Gaveston! You that be noble-born should pity him.

Queen Isabella

Sweet husband, be content; they all love you.

King Edward

They love me not that hate my Gaveston. I am that cedar; shake me not too much; And you the eagles; soar ye ne’er so high, I have the jesses that will pull you down; And Aeque tandem shall that canker cry Unto the proudest peer of Britainy. Thou that compar’st him to a flying-fish, And threaten’st death whether he rise or fall, ’Tis not the hugest monster of the sea, Nor foulest harpy, that shall swallow him.

Younger Mortimer

If in his absence thus he favours him, What will he do whenas he shall be present?

Lancaster

That shall we see: look, where his lordship comes!

Enter Gaveston.

King Edward

Leicester, if gentle words might comfort me, Thy speeches long ago had eased my sorrows, For kind and loving hast thou always been. The griefs of private men are soon allayed; But not of kings. The forest deer, being struck, Runs to an herb that closeth up the wounds: But when the imperial lion’s flesh is gored, He rends and tears it with his wrathful paw, And, highly scorning that the lowly earth Should drink his blood, mounts up to the air: And so it fares with me, whose dauntless mind The ambitious Mortimer would seek to curb, And that unnatural queen, false Isabel, That thus hath pent and mewed me in a prison For such outrageous passions cloy my soul, As with the wings of rancour and disdain Full often am I soaring up to heaven, To plain me to the gods against them both. But when I call to mind I am a king, Methinks I should revenge me of my wrongs, That Mortimer and Isabel have done. But what are kings, when regiment is gone, But perfect shadows in a sunshine day? My nobles rule; I bear the name of king, I wear the crown; but am controlled by them, By Mortimer, and my unconstant queen, Who spots my nuptial bed with infamy; Whilst I am lodged within this cave of care, Where sorrow at my elbow still attends, To company my heart with sad laments, That bleeds within me for this strange exchange. But tell me, must I now resign my crown, To make usurping Mortimer a king?

Bishop of Winchester

Your grace mistakes; it is for England’s good, And princely Edward’s right, we crave the crown.