The Works of Christopher Marlowe

Edward II

Act: 5 Scene: 2
Queene
Sweet Mortimer, the life of Isabell
Be thou perswaded, that I love thee well,
And therefore so the prince my sonne be safe,
Whome I esteeme as deare as these mine eyes,
Conclude against his father what thou wilt,
And I my selfe will willinglie subscribe.
Queene
How fares my lord the king ?
Queene
Alas poore soule, would I could ease his greefe.
Thankes gentle Winchester: sirra, be gon.
Queene
O happie newes, send for the prince my sonne.
Queene
Then let some other be his guardian.
Queene
But Mortimer, as long as he survives
What safetie rests for us, or for my sonne?
Queen
I would hee were, so it ere not by my meanes.
Queene
Whither goes this letter, to my lord the king?
Commend me humblie to his Majestie,
And tell him, that I labour all in vaine,
To ease his greefe, and worke his libertie:
And beare him this, as witnesse of my love.
Queene
Some thing he whispers in his childish eares.
Queene
Use Edmund friendly, as if all were well.
Queene
Well, if my Lorde your brother were enlargde.
Queene
The more my greefe.
Queene
Sweete sonne come hither, I must talke with thee.
Queene
But bee content, seeing it his highnesse pleasure.
Queene
Brother, you know it is impossible.
Queene
No, God forbid.
Queene
Come sonne, and go with this gentle Lorde and me.
Queene
Brother Edmund, strive not, we are his friends,
Isabell is neerer then the earle of Kent.
Queene.
Edward is my sonne, and I will keepe him. [Is going off]
Act: 5 Scene: 4
Queene
Lord Mortimer, now take him to your charge.
Queene
Sonne, be content, I dare not speake a worde.
Queene
Feare not sweete boye, ile garde thee from thy foes,
Had Edmund liv'de, he would have sought thy death.
Come sonne, weele ride a hunting in the parke.
Queene
He is a traitor, thinke not on him, come.
Act: 5 Scene: 6
Queene
A Mortimer, the king my sonne hath news,
His fathers dead, and we have murdered him.
Queene
I, I, but he teares his haire, and wrings his handes,
And vowes to be revengd upon us both,
Into the councell chamber he is gone,
To crave the aide and succour of his peeres.
Aye me, see where he comes, and they with him,
Now Mortimer begins our tragedie.
Queene
Weepe not sweete sonne.
Queene
I feard as much, murther cannot be hid.
Queene
For my sake sweete sonne pittie Mortimer.
Queene
As thou receivedst thy life from me,
Spill not the bloud of gentle Mortimer.
Queene
I spill his bloud ? no.
Queene
That rumor is untrue, for loving thee,
Is this report raisde on poore Isabell.
Queene
Nay, to my death, for too long have I lived,
When as my sonne thinkes to abridge my daies.
Queene
Shall I not moorne for my beloved lord,
And with the rest accompanie him to his grave?
Queene
He hath forgotten me, stay, I am his mother.
Queene
Then come sweete death, and rid me of this greefe.