TheStationersRegister

The Works of Christopher Marlowe

Act: 5 Scene: 6

A Mortimer, the king my sonne hath news,

His fathers dead, and we have murdered him.

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.

Weepe not sweete sonne.

I feard as much, murther cannot be hid.

For my sake sweete sonne pittie Mortimer.

As thou receivedst thy life from me,

Spill not the bloud of gentle Mortimer.

I spill his bloud ? no.

That rumor is untrue, for loving thee,

Is this report raisde on poore Isabell.

Nay, to my death, for too long have I lived,

When as my sonne thinkes to abridge my daies.

Shall I not moorne for my beloved lord,

And with the rest accompanie him to his grave?

He hath forgotten me, stay, I am his mother.

Then come sweete death, and rid me of this greefe.