My Lorde.

My lord, why do you thus incense your peeres,

That naturally would love and honour you,

But for that base and obscure Gaveston :

Foure Earldomes have I besides Lancaster,

Darbie, Salsburie, Lincolne, Leicester,

These will I sell to give my souldiers paye,

Ere Gaveston shall stay within the realme.

Therefore if he be come, expell him straight.

And Northward Gaveston hath many friends.

Adew my Lord, and either change your minde,

Or looke to see the throne where you should sit,

To floate in bloud, and at thy wanton head,

The glozing head of thy base minion throwne.

What? will they tyrannize upon the Church?

Ah wicked king, accurssed Gaveston,

This ground which is corrupted with their steps,

Shall be their timeles sepulcher, or mine.

That villaine Gaveston is made an Earle.

My lord of Cornewall now, at every worde,

And happie is the man, whom he vouchsafes

For vailing of his bonnet one good looke.

Thus arme in arme, the king and he dooth marche:

Nay more, the guarde upon his lordship waites:

And all the court begins to flatter him.

All stomack him, but none dare speake a word.

His countenance bewraies he is displeasd.

My lord, will you take armes against the king?

No, but weele lift Gaveston from hence.

What we confirme the king will frustrate.

Come then lets away.

Here is the forme of Gavestons exile:

May it please your lordship to subscribe your name.

Quick quick my lorde, I long to write my name.

Your grace doth wel to place him by your side,

For no where else the new earle is so safe.

My lord, you may not thus disparage us,

Away I say with hatefull Gaveston.

Learne then to rule us better and the realme.

Then linger not my lord but do it straight.

Come, come, subscribe.

Give it me, ile have it published in the streetes.

Looke where the sister of the king of Fraunce,

Sits wringing of her hands, and beats her brest.

Feare ye not Madam, now his minions gone,

His wanton humor will be quicklie left.

For his repeale, Madam! he comes not back,

Unlesse the sea cast up his shipwrack body.

And so am I my lord, diswade the Queene.

My Lords,albeit the Queen winne Mortimer,

Will you be resolute and hold with me?

And see how coldly his lookes make deniall.

Ile rather loose his friendship I, then graunt.

Fie Mortimer, dishonor not thy selfe,

Can this be true twas good to banish him,

And is this true to call him home againe?

Such reasons make white blacke, and darke night day.

In no respect can contraries be true.

I, but how chance this was not done before?

On that condition Lancaster will graunt.

Diablo, what passions call you these?

This salutation overjoyes my heart.

Such newes we heare my lord.