Not Mortimer, nor any of his side,

Because the king and he are enemies.

Baldock: learne this of me, a factious lord

Shall hardly do himselfe good, much lesse us,

But he that hath the favour of a king,

May with one word, advaunce us while we live:

The liberall earle of Cornewall is the man,

On whose good fortune Spencers hope depends.

No, his companion, for he loves me well,

And would have once preferd me to the king.

I for a while, but Baldock marke the end,

A friend of mine told me in secrecie,

That hees repeald, and sent for back againe,

And even now, a poast came from the court,

With letters to our ladie from the King,

And as she red, she smild, which makes me thinke,

It is about her lover Gaveston.

Our Ladies first love is not wavering,

My life for thine she will have Gaveston.

Then Balduck, you must cast the scholler off,

And learne to court it like a Gentleman,

Tis not a black coate and a little band,

A Velvet cap'de cloake, fac'st before with Serge,

And smelling to a Nosegay all the day,

Or holding of a napkin in your hand,

Or saying a long grace at a tables end,

Or making lowe legs to a noble man,

Or looking downeward, with your eye lids close,

And saying, trulie ant may please your honor,

Can get you any favour with great men.

You must be proud, bold, pleasant, resolute,

And now and then, stab as occasion serves.

But one of those that saith quandoquidem,

And hath a speciall gift to forme a verbe.

I knew the King would have him home againe.

I humbly thanke your Ladieship.

No greater titles happen unto me,

Then to be favoured of your majestie.

I feare me he is slaine my gratious lord.

Were I king Edward, Englands soveraigne,

Sonne to the lovelie Elenor of Spaine,

Great Edward Longshankes issue: would I beare

These braves, this rage, and suffer uncontrowld

These Barons thus to beard me in my land,

In mine owne realme? my lord pardon my speeche,

Did you retaine your fathers magnanimitie,

Did you regard the honor of your name,

You would not suffer thus your majestie

Be counterbuft of your nobilitie.

Strike off their heads, and let them preach on poles,

No doubt, such lessons they will teach the rest,

As by their preachments they will profit much,

And learne obedience to their lawfull king.

True, and it like your grace,

That powres in lieu of all your goodnes showne,

His life, my lord, before your princely feete.

My lord, here comes the Queene.

Proud recreants.

Some treason, or some villanie was cause.

A bloudie part, flatly against law of armes.

My lord, referre your vengeance to the sword,

Upon these Barons, harten up your men,

Let them not unrevengd murther your friends,

Advaunce your standard Edward in the field,

And marche to fire them from their starting holes.

By earth, the common mother of us all,

By heaven, and all the mooving orbes thereof,

By this right hand, and by my fathers sword,

And all the honors longing to my crowne,

I will have heads, and lives, for him as many,

As I have manors, castels, townes, and towers:

Tretcherous Warwicke, traiterous Mortimer,

If I be Englands king, in lakes of gore

Your headles trunkes, your bodies will I traile,

That you may drinke your fill, and quaffe in bloud,

And staine my roiall standard with the same,

That so my bloudie colours may suggest

Remembrance of revenge immortallie,

On your accursed traiterous progenie,

You villaines that have slaine my Gaveston:

And in this place of honor and of trust, [Rises.]

Spencer, sweet Spencer, I adopt thee heere,

And meerely of our love we do create thee

Earle of Gloster, and lord Chamberlaine,

Despite of times, despite of enemies.

My lord, here is a messenger from the Barons,

Desires accesse unto your majestie.

A traitors, will they still display their pride?

I doubt it not my lord, right will prevaile.

Tis not amisse my liege for eyther part,

To breathe a while, our men with sweat and dust

All chockt well neare, begin to faint for heate,

And this retire refresheth horse and man.

Heere come the rebels.

Traitor on thy face, rebellious Lancaster.

Levune, the trust that we repose in thee,

Begets the quiet of king Edwards land,

Therefore be gon in hast, and with advice,

Bestowe that treasure on the lords of Fraunce,

That therewith all enchaunted like the guarde,

That suffered Jove to passe in showers of golde

To Danae, all aide may be denied

To Isabell the Queene, that now in France

Makes friends, to crosse the seas with her yong sonne,

And step into his fathers regiment.

Then make for Fraunce amaine, Levune away,

Proclaime king Edwards warres and victories.

What newes my lord ?

My lord, we have, and if he be in England,

A will be had ere long I doubt it not.

My dutie to your honor premised, &c. I have according to instruc- tions in that behalfe, dealt with the king of Fraunce his lords, and effected, that the Queene all discontented and discomforted, is gone,whither if you aske, with sir John of Henolt, brother to the Marquesse, into Flaunders: with them are gone lord Edmund, and the lord Mortimer, having in their company divers of your nation, and others, and as constant report goeth, they intend to give king Edward battell in England, sooner then he can looke for them: this is all the newes of import. Your honors in all service, Levune.

Fly, fly, my Lord, the Queene is over strong,

Her friends doe multiply and yours doe fayle,

Shape we our course to Ireland there to breath.

Rebell is he that fights against his prince,

So fought not they that fought in Edwards right.

Not one alive, but shrewdly I suspect,

A gloomie fellow in a meade belowe,

A gave a long looke after us my lord,

And all the land I know is up in armes,

Armes that pursue our lives with deadly hate.

Looke up my lord. Baldock, this drowsines

Betides no good, here even we are betraied.

It may become thee yet,

To let us take our farewell of his grace.

We must my lord, so will the angry heavens.

O is he gone! is noble Edward gone,

Parted from hence, never to see us more!

Rent sphere of heaven, and fier forsake thy orbe,

Earth melt to ayre, gone is my soveraigne,

Gone, gone alas, never to make returne.