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The Works of Christopher Marlowe

Edward II

Act: 2 Scene: 2

Sweet Lord and King, your speech preventeth mine,

Yet have I words left to expresse my joy:

The sheepeherd nipt with biting winters rage,

Frolicks not more to see the paynted springe,

Then I doe to behold your Majestie.

My Lord I cannot brooke these injuries.

Base leaden Earles that glorie in your birth,

Goe sit at home and eate your tenants beefe:

And come not here to scoffe at Gaveston,

Whose mounting thoughts did never creepe so low,

As to bestow a looke on such as you.

The life of thee shall salve this foule disgrace.

My lord, dissemble with her, speake her faire.

Why do you not commit him to the tower?

Why then weele have him privilie made away.

I my lord,

His name is Spencer, he is well alied,

For my sake let him waite upon your grace,

Scarce shall you finde a man of more desart.

I know my lord, many will stomack me,

But I respect neither their love nor hate.