The Works of Christopher Marlowe

Edward II


Act: 1 Scene: 1
Lancaster.
Will you not graunt me this?—In spight of them[Aside.]
Ile have my will, and these two Mortimers,
That crosse me thus, shall know I am displeasd.
Well Mortimer, ile make thee rue these words,
Beseemes it thee to contradict thy king?
Frownst thou thereat, aspiring Lancaster,
The sworde shall plane the furrowes of thy browes,
And hew these knees that now are growne so stiffe.
I will have Gaveston, and you shall know,
What danger tis to stand against your king.
I yours, and therefore I would wish you graunt.
I cannot brooke these hautie menaces:
Am I a king and must be over rulde?
Brother displaie my ensignes in the field,
Ile bandie with the Barons and the Earles,
And eyther die, or live with Gaveston.
What Gaveston, welcome: kis not my hand,
Embrace me Gaveston as I do thee:
Why shouldst thou kneele, knowest thou not who I am?
Thy friend, thy selfe, another Gaveston .
Not Hilas was more mourned of Hercules,
Then thou hast beene of me since thy exile.
I know it, brother welcome home my friend.
Now let the treacherous Mortimers conspire,
And that high minded earle of Lancaster,
I have my wish, in that I joy thy sight,
And sooner shall the sea orewhelme my land,
Then beare the ship that shall transport thee hence:
I heere create thee Lord high Chamberlaine,
Cheefe Secretarie to the state and me,
Earle of Cornewall, king and lord of Man.
Cease brother, for I cannot brooke these words:
Thy woorth sweet friend is far above my guifts,
Therefore to equall it receive my hart.
If for these dignities thou be envied,
Ile give thee more, for but to honour thee,
Is Edward pleazd with kinglie regiment.
Fearst thou thy person? thou shalt have a guard:
Wants thou gold? go to my treasurie:
Wouldst thou be lovde and fearde? receive my seale,
Save or condemne, and in our name commaund,
What so thy minde affectes or fancie likes.
whether goes my Lord of Coventrie so fast?
I priest, and lives to be revengd on thee,
That wert the onely cause of his exile.
Throwe of his golden miter, rend his stole,
And in the channell christen him a new.
No, spare his life, but seaze upon his goods,
Be thou lord bishop, and receive his rents,
And make him serve thee as thy chaplaine,
I give him thee, here use him as thou wilt.
I, to the tower, the fleete, or where thou wilt.
Whose there? conveie this priest to the tower.
But in the meane time Gaveston away,
And take possession of his house and goods:
Come follow me, and thou shalt have my guarde,
To see it done, and bring thee safe againe.

Act: 1 Scene: 4
What? are you mov'd that Gaveston sits heere?
It is our pleasure, we will have it so.
Lay hands on that traitor Mortimer.
whether whither will you beare him, stay or ye shall die.
Were he a peasant, being my minion,
Ile make the prowdest of you stoope to him.
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?
Anger and wrathfull furie stops my speech.
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.
I there it goes, but yet I will not yeeld,
Curse me, depose me, doe the worst you can.
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.
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.
I see I must, and therefore am content.
In steede of inke, ile write it with my teares.
Tis done, and now accursed hand fall off.
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.
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.
Rend not my hart with thy too piercing words,
Thou from this land, I from my selfe am banisht.
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.
Thou shalt not hence, ile hide thee Gaveston.
Kinde wordes, and mutuall talke, makes our greefe greater,
Therefore with dum imbracement let us part.
Stay Gaveston , I cannot leave thee thus.
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.
I passe not for their anger, come lets go,
O that we might as well returne as goe.
Fawne not on me French strumpet, get thee gone.
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.
Away then, touch me not, come Gaveston.
Speake not unto her, let her droope and pine.
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.
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.
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.
That you have parled with your Mortimer
Repeald, the newes is too sweet to be true.
If it be so, what will not Edward do?
For thee faire Queene, if thou lovest Gaveston,
Ile hang a golden tongue about thy neck,
Seeing thou hast pleaded with so good successe.
Once more receive my hand, and let this be,
A second mariage twixt thy selfe and me.
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.
Warwick shalbe 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.
In sollemne triumphes, and in publike showes,
Penbrooke shall beare the sword before the king.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Thankes gentle Warwick, come lets in and revell.