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The Works of Christopher Marlowe

Edward II

Act: 2 Scene: 1

Spencer,

Seeing that our Lord th'earle of Glosters dead,

Which of the nobles dost thou meane to serve?

What, meane you then to be his follower?

But he is banisht, theres small hope of him.

Tis like enough, for since he was exild,

She neither walkes abroad, nor comes in sight:

But I had thought the match had beene broke off,

And that his banishment had changd her minde.

Then hope I by her meanes to be preferd,

Having read unto her since she was a childe.

Spencer, thou knowest I hate such formall toies,

And use them but of meere hypocrisie.

Mine old lord whiles he livde, was so precise,

That he would take exceptions at my buttons,

And being like pins heads, blame me for the bignesse,

Which made me curate-like in mine attire,

Though inwardly licentious enough,

And apt for any kinde of villanie.

I am none of these common pedants I,

That cannot speake without propterea quod.

Leave of this jesting, here my lady comes.

It shall be done madam.

Act: 2 Scene: 2

My name is Baldock, and my gentrie

If fetcht rom Oxford, not from Heraldrie.

I humblie thanke your majestie.

Act: 3 Scene: 1

This haught resolve becomes your majestie,

Not to be tied to their affection,

As though your highnes were a schoole boy still,

And must be awde and governd like a child.

Yea, but Levune thou seest,

These Barons lay their heads on blocks together,

What they intend, the hangman frustrates cleane.

Act: 4 Scene: 5

O no my lord, this princely resolution

Fits not the time, away, we are pursu'd.

Act: 4 Scene: 7

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!

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.

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.