The Works of Christopher Marlowe

Edward II


Act: 4 Scene: 2
A boye, our friends do faile us all in Fraunce,
The lords are cruell, and the king unkinde,
What shall we doe?
A boye, thou art deceivde at least in this,
To thinke that we can yet be tun'd together,
No, no, we jarre too farre. Unkinde Valoys,
Unhappie Isabell, when Fraunce rejects,
whether, O whether doost thou bend thy steps?
A good sir John of Henolt,
Never so cheereles, nor so farre distrest.
Oh my sweet hart, how do I mone thy wrongs,
Yet triumphe in the hope of thee my joye?
Ah sweete sir John, even to the utmost verge
of Europe, or the shore of Tanaise,
Will we with thee to Henolt, so we will.
The Marques is a noble Gentleman,
His grace I dare presume will welcome me,
But who are these?
Lord Edmund and lord Mortimer alive?
Welcome to Fraunce: the newes was heere my lord,
That you were dead, or very neare your death.
Not sonne, why not? I would it were no worse,
But gentle lords, friendles we are in Fraunce.
Nay sonne, not so, and you must not discourage
Your friends that are so forward in your aide.
Yea gentle brother, and the God of heaven,
Prosper your happie motion good sir John.

Act: 4 Scene: 4
Now lords, our loving friends and countrimen,
Welcome to England all with prosperous windes,
Our kindest friends in Belgia have we left,
To cope with friends at home: a heavie case,
When force to force is knit, and sword and gleave
In civill broiles makes kin and country men
Slaughter themselves in others and their sides
With their owne weapons gorde, but whats the helpe?
Misgoverned kings are cause of all this wrack,
And Edward thou art one among them all,
Whose loosnes hath betrayed thy land to spoyle,
And made the channels overflow with blood,
Of thine own people patron shouldst thou be
But thou---

Act: 4 Scene: 6
Succesfull battells gives the God of kings,
To them that fight in right and feare his wrath:
Since then succesfully we have prevayled,
Thankes be heavens great architect and you.
Ere farther we proceede my noble lordes,
We heere create our welbeloved sonne,
Of love and care unto his royall person,
Lord warden of the realme, and sith the fates
Have made his father so infortunate,
Deale you my lords in this, my loving lords,
As to your wisdomefittest seemes in all.
My lord, the Maior of Bristow knows our mind.
Baldock is with the king,
A goodly chauncelor, is he not my lord ?
We thanke you all.
I rue my lords ill fortune, but alas,
Care of my countrie cald me to this warre.