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The Works of Christopher Marlowe

My father is deceast, come Gaveston,

And share the kingdom with thy deerest friend.

Ah words that make me surfet with delight:

What greater blisse can hap to Gaveston,

Then live and be the favorit of a king?

Sweete prince I come, these these thy amorous lines,

Might have enforst me to have swum from France,

And like Leander gaspt upon the sande,

So thou wouldst smile and take me in thy armes.

The sight of London to my exiled eyes,

Is as Elizium to a new come soule.

Not that I love the citie or the men,

But that it harbors him I hold so deare,

The king, upon whose bosome let me die,

And with the world be still at enmitie:

What neede the artick people love star-light,

To whom the sunne shines both by day and night.

Farewell base stooping to the lordly peeres,

My knee shall bowe to none but to the king.

As for the multitude that are but sparkes,

Rakt up in embers of their povertie,

Tanti: Ile fawne first on the winde,

That glaunceth at my lips and flieth away:

Enter three poore men.

But how now, what are these?

What canst thou doe?

But I have no horses. What art thou?

Let me see, thou wouldst do well

To waite at my trencher, and tell me lies at dinner time,

And as I like your discoursing, ile have you.

And what art thou?

Why there are hospitals for such as you,

I have no warre, and therefore sir be gone.

I, I, these wordes of his move me as much,

As if a Goose should play the Porpintine,

And dart her plumes, thinking to pierce my brest,

But yet it is no paine to speake men faire,

Ile flatter these, and make them live in hope:

You know that I came lately out of France,

And yet I have not viewd my Lord the king,

If I speed well, ile entertaine you all.

I have some busines, leave me to my selfe.

Do: these are not men for me,

I must have wanton Poets, pleasant wits,

Musitians, that with touching of a string

May draw the pliant king which way I please:

Musicke and poetrie is his delight,

Therefore ile have Italian maskes by night,

Sweete speeches, comedies, and pleasing showes,

And in the day when he shall walke abroad,

Like Sylvian Nimphes my pages shall be clad,

My men like Satyres grazing on the lawnes,

Shall with their Goate feete daunce an antick hay.

Sometime a lovelie boye in Dians shape,

With haire that gilds the water as it glides,

Crownets of pearle about his naked armes,

And in his sportfull hands an Olive tree,

To hide those parts which men delight to see,

Shall bathe him in a spring, and there hard by,

One like Actaeon peeping through the grove,

Shall by the angrie goddesse be transformde,

And running in the likenes of an Hart,

By yelping hounds puld downe, and seeme to die.

Such things as these best please his majestie,

My lord. Heere comes the king and the nobles

From the parlament, ile stand aside.

That Earle of Lancaster do I abhorre.

That villaine Mortimer, ile be his death.

I can no longer keepe me from my lord.

And since I went from hence, no soule in hell

Hath felt more torment then poore Gaveston.

My lord, these titles far exceed my worth.

It shall suffice me to enjoy your love,

Which whiles I have, I thinke my selfe as great,

As Caesar riding in the Romaine streete,

With captive kings at his triumphant Carre.

Tis true, and but for reverence of these robes,

Thou shouldst not plod one foote beyond this place.

Saving your reverence, you must pardon me.

Let him complaine unto the sea of hell,

Ile be revengd on him for my exile.

He shall to prison, and there die in boults.

What should a priest do with so faire a house?

A prison may beseeme his holinesse.

Edmund , the mightie prince of Lancaster

That hath more earldomes then an asse can beare,

And both the Mortimers, two goodly men,

With Guie of Warwick that redoubted knight,

Are gone towards Lambeth, there let them remaine.

No, threaten not my lord, but pay them home.

Were I a king---

My lord I heare it whispered every where,

That I am banishd, and must flie the land.

Is all my hope turnd to this hell of greefe.

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.

Tis something to be pitied of a king.

I shal be found, and then twil greeve me more.

For every looke, my lord , drops downe a teare,

Seeing I must go, do not renew my sorrow.

The peeres will frowne.

On Mortimer, with whom ungentle Queen—

I say no more, judge you the rest my lord.

I meane not so, your grace must pardon me.

Madam, tis you that rob me of my lord.

Edward II