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The Works of Christopher Marlowe

Edward II

Act: 2 Scene: 2

Nothing but Gaveston, what means your grace?

You have matters of more waight to thinke upon,

The King of Fraunce sets foote in Normandie .

A homely one my lord, not worth the telling.

But seeing you are so desirous, thus it is:

A loftie Cedar tree faire flourishing,

On whose top-branches Kinglie Eagles pearch,

And by the barke a canker creepes me up,

And gets unto the highest bough of all,

The motto: Aeque tandem.

If in his absence thus he favors him,

What will he do when as he shall be present?

Welcome is the good Earle of Cornewall.

Villaine thy life, unlesse I misse mine aime.

No more then I would answere were he slaine.

Ile not be barde the court for Gaveston.

Moov'd may he be, and perish in his wrath.

By heaven, the abject villaine shall not live.

Letters, from whence?

My unckles taken prisoner by the Scots.

They rate his ransome at five thousand pound .

Who should defray the money, but the King,

Seeing he is taken prisoner in his warres?

Ile to the King.

About it then, and we will follow you.

Cosin, and if he will not ransome him,

Ile thunder such a peale into his eares,

As never subject did unto his King.

I marry, such a garde as this dooth well.

Whither else but to the King.

May we not?

Nay, stay my lord, I come to bring you newes,

Mine unckles taken prisoner by the Scots.

And you shall ransome him, or else--

My lord, the familie of the Mortimers

Are not so poore, but would they sell their land,

Would levie men enough to anger you.

We never beg, but use such praiers as these.

Nay, now you are heere alone, ile speake my minde.

The idle triumphes, maskes, lascivious showes

And prodigall gifts bestowed on Gaveston,

Have drawne thy treasure drie, and made thee weake,

The murmuring commons overstretched hath.

Lancaster. Looke for rebellion, looke to be deposde,

Thy garrisons are beaten out of Fraunce,

And lame and poore, lie groning at the gates,

The wilde Oneyle, with swarmes of Irish Kernes,

Lives uncontroulde within the English pale,

Unto the walles of Yorke the Scots made rode,

And unresisted, drave away riche spoiles.

The hautie Dane commands the narrow seas,

While in the harbor ride thy ships unrigd.

Who loves thee? but a sort of flatterers.

Thy court is naked, being bereft of those,

That makes a king seeme glorious to the world,

I meane the peeres, whom thou shouldst dearly love:

Libels are cast againe thee in the streete,

Ballads and rimes, made of thy overthrow.

When wert thou in the field with banner spred?

But once , and then thy souldiers marcht like players,

With garish robes, not armor, and thy selfe

Bedaubd with golde, rode laughing at the rest,

Nodding and shaking of thy spangled crest,

Where womens favors hung like labels downe.

Wigmore shall flie, to set my unckle free.