Edward II

All live to die, and rise to fall.

The mightiest kings have had their minions; Great Alexander loved Hephaestion, The conquering Hercules for Hylas wept; And for Patroclus, stern Achilles drooped. And not kings only, but the wisest men: The Roman Tully loved Octavius, Grave Socrates, wild Alcibiades.

I must have wanton Poets, pleasant wits, Musitians, that with touching of a string May draw the pliant king which way I please: Musicke and poetrie is his delight, Therefore ile have Italian maskes by night, Sweete speeches, comedies, and pleasing showes, And in the day when he shall walke abroad, Like Sylvian Nimphes my pages shall be clad, My men like Satyres grazing on the lawnes, Shall with their Goate feete daunce an antick hay. Sometime a lovelie boye in Dians shape, With haire that gilds the water as it glides, Crownets of pearle about his naked armes, And in his sportfull hands an Olive tree, To hide those parts which men delight to see, Shall bathe him in a spring, and there hard by, One like Actaeon peeping through the grove, Shall by the angrie goddesse be transformde, And running in the likenes of an Hart, By yelping hounds puld downe, and seeme to die. Such things as these best please his majestie, My lord.

You must be proud, bold, pleasant, resolute, And now and then stab as occasion serves.

Thou from this land, I from myself am banish'd.

Gaveston: I can no longer keepe me from my lord. Edward: What Gaveston, welcome: kis not my hand, Embrace me Gaveston as I do thee: Why shouldst thou kneele, knowest thou not who I am? Thy friend, thy selfe, another Gaveston. Not Hilas was more mourned of Hercules, Then thou hast beene of me since thy exile.

If I be cruel and grow tyrannous, Now let them thank themselves, and rue too late.

My father is deceast, come Gaveston,' And share the kingdom with thy deerest friend.' Ah words that make me surfet with delight: What greater blisse can hap to Gaveston, Then live and be the favorit of a king? Sweete prince I come, these these thy amorous lines, Might have enforst me to have swum from France, And like Leander gaspt upon the sande, So thou wouldst smile and take me in thy armes. The sight of London to my exiled eyes, Is as Elizium to a new come soule. Not that I love the citie or the men, But that it harbors him I hold so deare, The king, upon whose bosome let me die, And with the world be still at enmitie: What neede the artick people love star-light, To whom the sunne shines both by day and night. Farewell base stooping to the lordly peeres, My knee shall bowe to none but to the king. As for the multitude that are but sparkes, Rakt up in embers of their povertie, Tanti: Ile fawne first on the winde, That glaunceth at my lips and flieth away: ....

Heavens can witness I love none but you: From my embracements thus he breaks away. O that mine arms could close this isle about, That I might pull him to me where I would! Or that these tears that drizzle from mine eyes Had power to mollify his stony heart, That when I had him we might never part.

YOUNGER MORTIMER: Base Fortune, now I see, that in thy wheel There is a point, to which when men aspire, They tumble headlong down: that point I touch'd, And, seeing there was no place to mount up higher, Why shall I grieve at my declining fall? Farewell, fair queen. Weep not for Mortimer, That scorns the world, and, as a traveller, Goes to discover countries yet unknown.

YOUNGER MORTIMER: Fear'd am I more than lov'd; - let me be fear'd, And, when I frown, make all the court look pale.

Edward: Well Mortimer, ile make thee rue these words, Beseemes it thee to contradict thy king? Frownst thou thereat, aspiring Lancaster, The sworde shall plane the furrowes of thy browes, And hew these knees that now are growne so stiffe. I will have Gaveston, and you shall know, What danger tis to stand against your king. Gaveston: Well doone, Ned.

BALDOCK: To die, sweet Spenser, therefore live we all; Spenser, all live to die, and rise to fall.

Why should you love him whom the world hates so?" "Because he loves me more than all the world

KING EDWARD: But what is he whom rule and empery Have not in life or death made miserable?

The sight of London to my exiled eyes Is as Elysium to a new-come soul.

But what are kings, when regiment is gone, But perfect shadows in a sunshine day?

YOUNG MORTIMER: Thou proud disturber of thy country's peace, Corrupter of thy king, cause of these broils, Base flatterer, yield! and were it not for shame, Shame and dishonour to a soldier's name, Upon my weapon's point here should'st thou fall, And welter in thy gore. LANCASTER: Monster of men! That, like the Greekish strumpet, train'd to arms And bloody wars so many valiant knights; Look for no other fortune, wretch, than death! King Edward is not here to buckler thee.

This tottered ensign of my ancestors Which swept the desert shore of that dead sea Whereof we got the name of Mortimer, Will I advance upon these castle-walls. Drums, strike alarum, raise them from their sport, And sing aloud the knell of Gaveston!

I know the next news that they bring Will be my death; and welcome shall it be: To wretched men death is felicity.

Now, sweet God of heaven, Make me despise this transitory pomp, And sit fot aye enthronised in heaven! Come, death, and with thy fingers close my eyes, Or, if I live, let me forget myself!

And in this torment, comfort find I none But that I feel the crown upon my head. And therefore let me wear it yet awhile.

Something still buzzeth in mine ears And tells me if I sleep I never wake; This fear is that which makes me tremble thus.

Sweet prince, I come! these, thy amorous lines Might have enforc'd me to have swum from France, And, like Leander, gasp'd upon the sand, So thou wouldst smile, and take me in thine arms.

Why should you love him whom the world hates so? Because he loves me more than all the world.

Base Fortune, now I see, that in thy wheel There is a point, to which when men aspire, They tumble headlong down: that point I touch'd, And, seeing there was no place to mount up higher, Why should I grieve at my declining fall?— Farewell, fair queen: weep not for Mortimer, That scorns the world, and, as a traveller, Goes to discover countries yet unknown.