GAVESTON

I, I, these words of his move me as much, As if a Goose should play the Porpintine, And dart her plumes, thinking to pierce my breast, But yet it is no pain to speak men fair, I'll flatter these, and make them live in hope: You know that I came lately out of France, And yet I have not viewed my Lord the king, If I speed well, isle entertain you all. I can no longer keep me from my lord. And since I went from hence, no soul in hell Hath felt more torment then poor Gaveston. Edmund the mighty prince of Lancaster, That hath more earldoms then and ass can bear, And both the Mortimers two goodly men, With Guy of Warwick that redoubted knight, Are gone towards Lambeth, there let them remain. No, threaten not my lord, but pay them home. Were I a king. My lord I hear it whispered every where, That I am banishd, and must fly the land. To go from hence, grieves not poor Gaveston, But to forsake you, in whose gracious looks The blessedness of Gaveston remains, For no where else seeks he felicity. I shall be found, and then 'twill grieve me more. For every look, my lord drops down a tear, Seeing I must go, do not renew my sorrow. The peers will frown. On Mortimer, with whom ungentle Queen, I say no more, judge you the rest my lord. I mean not so, your grace must pardon me. Madam, 'tis you that rob me of my lord. Sweet Lord and King, your speech preventeth mine, Yet have I words left to express my joy: The sheepeherd nipped with biting winter's rage, Frolicks not more to see the painted spring, Then I do to behold your Majesty. My Lord I cannot brook these injuries. Base leaden Earls that glory in your birth, Go fit at home and eat your tenants beef: And come not here to scoff at Gaveston, Whose mounting thoughts did never creep so low, As to bestow a look on such as you. The life of thee shall salve this foul disgrace. My lord, dissemble with her, speak her fair. Why do you not commit him to the tower? Why then weel have him privily made away. I my lord, his name is Spencer, he is well allied, For my sake let him wait upon your grace, Scarce shall you find a man of more desert. I know my lord, many will stomach me, But I respect neither their love nor hate. Oh stay my lord, they will not injure you. Farewell my Lord. Yet lusty lords I have escaped your hands, Your threats, your larums, and your hight pursuits, And though deuorsed from king Edwards eyes, Yet lives Pierce of Gaveston unsurprised, Breathing, in hope ( malgrado all your beards, That muster rebels thus against your king) To see his royal sovereign once again. My Lord. I thank you all my lords, then I perceive, That heading is one, and hanging is the other, And death is all. Renowned Edward, how thy name Revives poor Gaveston. Sweet sovereign, yet I come To see thee ere I die. Unhappy Gaveston, whither goest thou now. Weaponless must I fallen and die in bans, Oh must this day be perjod of my life! Centre of all my bliss, and ye be men, Speed to the king. Treacherous earl, shall I not see the king? What canst thou do? But I have no horses. What art thou? Let me see, thou wouldst do well To wait at my trencher, & tell me lies at dinner time, And as I Like your discoursing, isle have you. And what art thou? Why there are hospitals for such as you, I have no war, and therefore sir be gone. I have some business, leave me to my self. Do: these are not men for me, I must have wanton Poets, pleasant wits, Musicians, that with touching of a string May draw the pliant king which way I please: Music and poetry is his delight, Therefore isle have Italian masks by night, Sweet speeches, comedies, and pleasing shows, And in the day when he shall walk abroad, Like Silvian Nymph's my pages shall be clad, My men Like Satires grazing on the lawns, Shall with their Goat feet dance and antic hay, Sometime a lovely boy in Dians shape, With hair that gilds the water as it glides, Crownets of pearl about his naked arms, And in his sportful hands and Olive tree, To hide those parts which men delight to see, Shall bath him in a spring, and there hard by, One Like Actaeon peeping through the grove, Shall by the angry goddess be transformde, And running in the likeness of and Heart, By yelping hounds pulled down, and seem to die, Such things as these best please his majesty. My lord, here comes the king and the nobles From the parliament, isle stand aside. That Earl of Lancaster do I abhor. That villain Mortimer isle be his death. Mort. dieu. Well done, Ned. My lord, these titles far exceed my worth. 'Tis something to be pitied of a king. Why my Lord of Warwick, Will not these delays beget my Hope's? I know it lords, it is this life you aim at, Yet grant king Edward this. It shall suffice me to enjoy your love, Which while I have, I think my self as great, As Caesar riding in the Roman street, With captive kings at his triumphant Car. 'Tis true, and but for reverence of these robes, Thou shouldst not plod one foot beyond this place. Saving your reverence, you must pardon me. Let him complain unto the sea of hell, I'll be revenged on him for my exile. He shall to prison, and there die in bolts. What should a priest do with so fair a house? A prison may be seem his holiness. Is all my hope turned to this hell of grief. How meanest thou Mortimer? that is over base. Oh treacherous Warwick thus to wrong thy friend!