TheStationersRegister

Faire Isabell now have we our desire,

The proud corrupters of the light-brainde king,

Have done their homage to the loftie gallowes,

And he himselfe lies in captivitie.

Be rulde by me, and we will rule the realme,

In any case, take heed of childish feare,

For now we hould an old Wolfe by the eares,

That if he slip will seaze upon us both,

And gripe the sorer being gript himselfe.

Thinke therefore madam that imports us much,

To erect your sonne with all the speed we may,

And that I be protector over him,

For our behoofe will beare the greater sway

When as a kings name shall be under writ.

Sweet Mortimer, the life of Isabell

Be thou perswaded, that I love thee well,

And therefore so the prince my sonne be safe,

Whome I esteeme as deare as these mine eyes,

Conclude against his father what thou wilt,

And I my selfe will willinglie subscribe.

First would I heare newes that hee were deposde,

And then let me alone to handle him.

Enter Messenger [and then Bishop of Winchester with the crown].

Letters from whence ?

Messenger

From Killingworth my lorde.

How fares my lord the king ?

Messenger

In health madam, but full of pensivenes.

Alas poore soule, would I could ease his greefe.

Thankes gentle Winchester: sirra, be gon.

[Exit Messenger.]

Bishop

The king hath willingly resignde his crowne.

O happie newes, send for the prince my sonne.

Bishop

Further, or this letter was sealed, Lord Bartley came,

So that he now is gone from Killingworth,

And we have heard that Edmund laid a plot,

To set his brother free, no more but so.

The lord of Bartley is so pitifull,

As Leicester that had charge of him before.

Then let some other be his guardian.

[Exit Winchester.]

Let me alone, here is the privie seale,

Whose there? call hither Gurney and Matrevis.

To dash the heavie headed Edmunds drift,

Bartley shall be dischargd, the king remoovde,

And none but we shall know where he lieth.

But Mortimer, as long as he survives

What safetie rests for us, or for my sonne?

Speake, shall he presently be dispatch'd and die?

Queen

I would hee were, so it ere not by my meanes.

Enter Matrevis and Gurney.

Inough.

Matrevis, write a letter presently

Unto the Lord of Bartley from our selfe,

That he resigne the king to thee and Gurney,

And when tis done, we will subscribe our name.

Matrevis

It shall be done my lord.

Mortimer.

Gurney.

Gurney

My Lorde.

As thou intendest to rise by Mortimer,

Who now makes Fortunes wheele turne as he please,

Seeke all the meanes thou canst to make him droope,

And neither give him kinde word, nor good looke.

Gurney

I warrant you my lord.

And this above the rest, because we heare

That Edmund casts to worke his libertie,

Remoove him still from place to place by night,

Till at the last, he come to Killingworth,

And then from thence to Bartley back againe:

And by the way to make him fret the more,

Speake curstlie to him, and in any case

Let no man comfort him, if he chaunce to weepe,

But amplifie his greefe with bitter words.

Matrevis

Feare not my Lord, weele do as you commaund.

So now away, post thither wards amaine.

Whither goes this letter, to my lord the king?

Commend me humblie to his Majestie,

And tell him, that I labour all in vaine,

To ease his greefe, and worke his libertie:

And beare him this, as witnesse of my love.

A ring.

Matrevis

I will madam.

Exeunt Matrevis and Gurney. Manent Isabell and Mortimer.

Enter the yong Prince, and the Earle of Kent talking with him.

Finely dissembled, do so still sweet Queene.

Heere comes the yong prince, with the Earle of Kent.

Some thing he whispers in his childish eares.

Mortimer.

If he have such accesse unto the prince,

Our plots and stratagems will soone be dasht.

Use Edmund friendly, as if all were well.

How fares my honorable lord of Kent?

In health sweete Mortimer, how fares your grace?

Well, if my Lorde your brother were enlargde.

I heare of late he hath deposde himselfe.

The more my greefe.

And mine.

Ah they do dissemble.

[Aside.]

Sweete sonne come hither, I must talke with thee.

Thou being his unckle, and the next of bloud,

Doe looke to be protector over the prince?

Not I my lord: who should protect the sonne,

But she that gave him life, I meane the Queene?

Mother, perswade me not to weare the crowne,

Let him be king, I am too yong to raigne.

But bee content, seeing it his highnesse pleasure.

Let me but see him first, and then I will.

I, do sweete Nephew.

Brother, you know it is impossible.

Why, is he dead ?

No, God forbid.

I would those wordes proceeded from your heart.

Inconstant Edmund, doost thou favor him,

That wast a cause of his imprisonment?

The more cause have I now to make amends.

I tell thee tis not meet, that one so false

Should come about the person of a prince.

My lord, he hath betraied the king his brother,

And therefore trust him not.

But hee repents, and sorrowes for it now.

Come sonne, and go with this gentle Lorde and me.

With you I will, but not with Mortimer.

Why yongling, s'dainst thou so of Mortimer?

Then I will carrie thee by force away.

Helpe unckle Kent, Mortimer will wrong me.

Brother Edmund, strive not, we are his friends,

Isabell is neerer then the earle of Kent.