“My father is deceased! Come, Gaveston,
And share the kingdom with thy dearest friend.”
Ah, words that make me surfeit with delight!
What greater bliss can hap to Gaveston
Than live and be the favourite of a king!
Sweet prince, I come! these, thy amorous lines
Might have enforced me to have swum from France,
And, like Leander, gasped upon the sand,
So thou wouldst smile, and take me in thine arms.
The sight of London to my exiled eyes
Is as Elysium to a new-come soul:
Not that I love the city or the men,
But that it harbours him I hold so dear⁠—
The king, upon whose bosom let me lie,
And with the world be still at enmity.
What need the arctic people love starlight,
To whom the sun shines both by day and night?
Farewell base stooping to the lordly peers!
My knee shall bow to none but to the king.
As for the multitude, that are but sparks,
Raked up in embers of their poverty⁠—
Tanti; I’ll fawn first on the wind,
That glanceth at my lips, and flieth away.
But how now! what are these?

Let me see; thou wouldst do well
To wait at my trencher, and tell me lies at dinnertime;
And, as I like your discoursing, I’ll have you.⁠—
And what art thou?

Why, there are hospitals for such as you:
I have no war; and therefore, sir, be gone.

Farewell, and perish by a soldier’s hand,
That wouldst reward them with an hospital!

Aside. Ay, ay, these words of his move me as much
As if a goose should play the porcupine,
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, I’ll entertain you all.

Do. Exeunt Poor Men.
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 I’ll have Italian masks by night,
Sweet speeches, comedies, and pleasing shows;
And in the day, when he shall walk abroad,
Like sylvan nymphs my pages shall be clad;
My men, like satyrs grazing on the lawns,
Shall with their goat-feet dance the antic hay;
Sometime a lovely boy in Dian’s shape,
With hair that gilds the water as it glides
Crownets of pearl about his naked arms,
And in his sportful 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 angry goddess be transformed,
And running in the likeness of an hart,
By yelping hounds pulled down, shall seem to die:
Such things as these best please his majesty.⁠—
Here comes my lord the king, and the nobles
From the parliament. I’ll stand aside. Retires.

Will you not grant me this? Aside. In spite of them
I’ll have my will; and these two Mortimers,
That cross me thus, shall know I am displeased.

Mine uncle here, this earl, and I myself,
Were sworn to your father at his death,
That he should ne’er return into the realm:
And now, my lord, ere I will break my oath,
This sword of mine, that should offend your foes,
Shall sleep within the scabbard at thy need,
And underneath thy banners march who will,
For Mortimer will hang his armour up.

Well, Mortimer, I’ll make thee rue these words:
Beseems it thee to contradict thy king?
Frown’st thou thereat, aspiring Lancaster?
The sword shall plane the furrows of thy brows,
And hew these knees that now are grown so stiff.
I will have Gaveston; and you shall know
What danger ’tis to stand against your king.

My lord, why do you thus incense your peers,
That naturally would love and honour you,
But for that base and obscure Gaveston?
Four earldoms have I, besides Lancaster⁠—
Derby, Salisbury, Lincoln, Leicester;
These will I sell, to give my soldiers pay,
Ere Gaveston shall stay within the realm:
Therefore, if he be come, expel him straight.

Barons and earls, your pride hath made me mute;
But know I’ll speak, and to the proof, I hope.
I do remember, in my father’s days,
Lord Percy of the North, being highly moved,
Braved Mowbray in presence of the king;
For which, had not his highness loved him well,
He should have lost his head; but with his look
The undaunted spirit of Percy was appeased,
And Mowbray and he were reconciled:
Yet dare you brave the king unto his face.⁠—
Brother, revenge it, and let these their heads
Preach upon poles, for trespass of their tongues.

I cannot, nor I will not; I must speak.⁠—
Cousin, our hands I hope shall fence our heads,
And strike off his that makes you threaten us.⁠—
Come, uncle, let us leave the brainsick king,
And henceforth parley with our naked swords.

And northward Lancaster hath many friends.⁠—
Adieu, my lord; and either change your mind,
Or look to see the throne, where you should sit,
To float in blood, and at thy wanton head,
The glozing head of thy base minion thrown.

I cannot brook these haughty menaces:
Am I a king, and must be overruled?⁠—
Brother, display my ensigns in the field:
I’ll bandy with the barons and the earls,
And either die or live with Gaveston.

What, Gaveston! welcome! Kiss not my hand:
Embrace me, Gaveston, as I do thee.
Why shouldst thou kneel? know’st thou not who I am?
Thy friend, thyself, another Gaveston:
Not Hylas was more mourned for of Hercules
Than thou hast been of me since thy exile.

And, since I went from hence, no soul in hell
Hath felt more torment than poor Gaveston.

I know it.⁠—Brother, welcome home my friend.⁠—
Now let the treacherous Mortimers conspire,
And that high-minded Earl of Lancaster:
I have my wish, in that I joy thy sight;
And sooner shall the sea o’erwhelm my land
Than bear the ship that shall transport thee hence.
I here create thee Lord High-chamberlain,
Chief Secretary to the state and me,
Earl of Cornwall, King and Lord of Man.

Brother, the least of these may well suffice
For one of greater birth than Gaveston.

Cease, brother, for I cannot brook these words.⁠—
Thy worth, sweet friend, is far above my gifts:
Therefore, to equal it, receive my heart.
If for these dignities thou be envied,
I’ll give thee more; for, but to honour thee,
Is Edward pleased with kingly regiment.
Fear’st thou thy person? thou shalt have a guard:
Wantest thou gold? go to my treasury:
Wouldst thou be loved and feared? receive my seal,
Save or condemn, and in our name command
What so thy mind affects, or fancy likes.

It shall suffice me to enjoy your love;
Which whiles I have, I think myself as great
As Caesar riding in the Roman street,
With captive kings at his triumphant car.

To celebrate your father’s exequies.
But is that wicked Gaveston returned?

Ay, priest, and lives to be revenged on thee,
That wert the only cause of his exile.

’Tis true; and, but for reverence of these robes,
Thou shouldst not plod one foot beyond this place.

I did no more than I was bound to do:
And, Gaveston, unless thou be reclaimed,
As then I did incense the parliament,
So will I now, and thou shalt back to France.

Throw off his golden mitre, rend his stole,
And in the channel christen him anew.

Ay, brother, lay not violent hands on him!
For he’ll complain unto the see of Rome.

Let him complain unto the see of hell:
I’ll be revenged on him for my exile.

No, spare his life, but seize upon his goods:
Be thou lord bishop, and receive his rents,
And make him serve thee as thy chaplain:
I give him thee; here, use him as thou wilt.

But, in the meantime, Gaveston, away,
And take possession of his house and goods.
Come, follow me, and thou shalt have my guard
To see it done, and bring thee safe again.

What should a priest do with so fair a house?
A prison may beseem his holiness.

’Tis true, the bishop is in the Tower,
And goods and body given to Gaveston.

What! will they tyrannise upon the church?
Ah, wicked King! accursed Gaveston!
This ground, which is corrupted with their steps,
Shall be their timeless sepulchre or mine.

Well, let that peevish Frenchman guard him sure;
Unless his breast be sword-proof, he shall die.

Ay, and besides Lord-chamberlain of the realm,
And Secretary too, and Lord of Man.

“My Lord of Cornwall” now at every word;
And happy is the man whom he vouchsafes,
For vailing of his bonnet, one good look.
Thus, arm in arm, the king and he doth march:
Nay, more, the guard upon his lordship waits,
And all the court begins to flatter him.

Thus leaning on the shoulder of the king,
He nods, and scorns, and smiles at those that pass.

Ah, that bewrays their baseness, Lancaster!
Were all the earls and barons of my mind,
We’d hale him from the bosom of the king,
And at the court-gate hang the peasant up,
Who, swollen with venom of ambitious pride,
Will be the ruin of the realm and us.

First, were his sacred garments rent and torn;
Then laid they violent hands upon him; next,
Himself imprisoned, and his goods asseized:
This certify the Pope: away, take horse. Exit Attendant.

What need I? God himself is up in arms
When violence is offered to the church.

Then will you join with us, that be his peers,
To banish or behead that Gaveston?

What else, my lords? for it concerns me near;
The bishoprick of Coventry is his.

Unto the forest, gentle Mortimer,
To live in grief and baleful discontent;
For now my lord the king regards me not,
But dotes upon the love of Gaveston:
He claps his cheeks, and hangs about his neck,
Smiles in his face, and whispers in his ears;
And, when I come, he frowns, as who should say,
“Go whither thou wilt, seeing I have Gaveston.”

Madam, return unto the court again:
That sly inveigling Frenchman we’ll exile,
Or lose our lives; and yet, ere that day come,
The king shall lose his crown; for we have power,
And courage too, to be revenged at full.

Then let him stay; for, rather than my lord
Shall be oppressed with civil mutinies,
I will endure a melancholy life,
And let him frolic with his minion.

My lords, to ease all this, but hear me speak:
We and the rest, that are his counsellors,
Will meet, and with a general consent
Confirm his banishment with our hands and seals.

And, in the meantime, I’ll entreat you all
To cross to Lambeth, and there stay with me.

Farewell, sweet Mortimer, and, for my sake,
Forbear to levy arms against the king.

Edmund, the mighty prince of Lancaster,
That hath more earldoms than an ass can bear,
And both the Mortimers, two goodly men,
With Guy of Warwick, that redoubted knight,
Are gone towards Lambeth⁠—

Here is the form of Gaveston’s exile;
May it please your lordship to subscribe your name.

The name of Mortimer shall fright the king,
Unless he be declined from that base peasant.

What, are you moved that Gaveston sits here?
It is our pleasure; we will have it so.

Your grace doth well to place him by your side,
For nowhere else the new earl is so safe.

What man of noble birth can brook this sight?
Quam male conveniunt!⁠—
See, what a scornful look the peasant casts!

Can kingly lions fawn on creeping ants?

Ignoble vassal, that, like Phaeton,
Aspir’st unto the guidance of the sun!

Their downfall is at hand, their forces down:
We will not thus be faced and over-peered.

Lay hands on that traitor Mortimer!

Lay hands on that traitor Gaveston!

Is this the duty that you owe your king?

We know our duties; let him know his peers.

Whither will you bear him? stay, or ye shall die.

We are no traitors; therefore threaten not.

No, threaten not, my lord, but pay them home.
Were I a king⁠—

Thou, villain! wherefore talk’st thou of a king,
That hardly art a gentleman by birth?

Were he a peasant, being my minion,
I’ll make the proudest of you stoop to him.

My lord⁠—you may not thus disparage us.⁠—
Away, I say, with hateful Gaveston!

Nay, then, lay violent hands upon your king:
Here, Mortimer, sit thou in Edward’s throne;
Warwick and Lancaster, wear you my crown.
Was ever king thus overruled as I?

Learn, then, to rule us better, and the realm.

What we have done, our heart-blood shall maintain.

Think you that we can brook this upstart’s pride?

Anger and wrathful fury stops my speech.

Why are you not moved? be patient, my lord,
And see what we your counsellors have done.

My lords, now let us all be resolute,
And either have our wills, or lose our lives.

Meet you for this, proud over-daring peers!
Ere my sweet Gaveston shall part from me,
This isle shall fleet upon the ocean,
And wander to the unfrequented Inde.

You know that I am legate to the Pope:
On your allegiance to the see of Rome,
Subscribe, as we have done, to his exile.

Curse him, if he refuse; and then may we
Depose him, and elect another king.

Ay, there it goes! but yet I will not yield:
Curse me, depose me, do the worst you can.

Then linger not, my lord, but do it straight.

Remember how the bishop was abused:
Either banish him that was the cause thereof,
Or I will presently discharge these lords
Of duty and allegiance due to thee.

Aside. It boots me not to threat; I must speak fair:
The legate of the Pope will be obeyed.⁠—

My lord, you shall be Chancellor of the realm;
Thou, Lancaster, High-Admiral of our fleet;
Young Mortimer and his uncle shall be earls;
And you, Lord Warwick, President of the North;
And thou of Wales. If this content you not,
Make several kingdoms of this monarchy,
And share it equally amongst you all,
So I may have some nook or corner left,
To frolic with my dearest Gaveston.

Nothing shall alter us; we are resolved.

Come, come, subscribe.

Why should you love him whom the world hates so?

Because he loves me more than all the world.
Ah, none but rude and savage-minded men
Would seek the ruin of my Gaveston!
You that be noble-born should pity him.

You that are princely-born should shake him off:
For shame, subscribe, and let the clown depart.

Urge him, my lord.

Are you content to banish him the realm?

I see I must, and therefore am content:
Instead of ink, I’ll write it with my tears. Subscribes.

Give it me: I’ll have it published in the streets.

I’ll see him presently despatched away.

Now is my heart at ease.

And so is mine.

This will be good news to the common sort.

How fast they run to banish him I love!
They would not stir, were it to do me good.
Why should a king be subject to a priest?
Proud Rome, that hatchest such imperial grooms,
With these thy superstitious taper-lights,
Wherewith thy antichristian churches blaze,
I’ll fire thy crazed buildings, and enforce
The papal towers to kiss the lowly ground!
With slaughtered priests make Tiber’s channel swell,
And banks raised higher with their sepulchres!
As for the peers, that back the clergy thus,
If I be king, not one of them shall live.

My lord, I hear it whispered everywhere,
That I am banished and must fly the land.

’Tis true, sweet Gaveston: O were it false!
The legate of the Pope will have it so,
And thou must hence, or I shall be deposed.
But I will reign to be revenged of them;
And therefore, sweet friend, take it patiently.
Live where thou wilt, I’ll send thee gold enough;
And long thou shalt not stay; or, if thou dost,
I’ll come to thee; my love shall ne’er decline.

Is all my hope turned to this hell of grief?

Rend not my heart with thy too-piercing words:
Thou from this land, I from myself am banished.

To go from hence grieves not poor Gaveston;
But to forsake you, in whose gracious looks
The blessedness of Gaveston remains;
For nowhere else seeks he felicity.

And only this torments my wretched soul,
That, whether I will or no, thou must depart.
Be governor of Ireland in my stead,
And there abide till fortune call thee home.
Here, take my picture, and let me wear thine:

O, might I keep thee here, as I do this,
Happy were I! but now most miserable.

’Tis something to be pitied of a king.

Thou shalt not hence; I’ll hide thee, Gaveston.

I shall be found, and then ’twill grieve me more.

Kind words and mutual talk makes our grief greater:
Therefore, with dumb embracement, let us part⁠—
Stay, Gaveston; I cannot leave thee thus.

For every look, my love drops down a tear:
Seeing I must go, do not renew my sorrow.

The time is little that thou hast to stay,
And, therefore, give me leave to look my fill.
But, come, sweet friend; I’ll bear thee on thy way.

I pass not for their anger. Come, let’s go:
O, that we might as well return as go!

On Mortimer; with whom, ungentle queen⁠—
I judge no more⁠—judge you the rest, my lord.

In saying this, thou wrong’st me, Gaveston:
Is’t not enough that thou corrupt’st my lord,
And art a bawd to his affections,
But thou must call mine honour thus in question?

Thou art too familiar with that Mortimer,
And by thy means is Gaveston exiled:
But I would wish thee reconcile the lords,
Or thou shalt ne’er be reconciled to me.

Wherein, my lord, have I deserved these words?
Witness the tears that Isabella sheds,
Witness this heart, that, sighing for thee, breaks,
How dear my lord is to poor Isabel!

And witness heaven how dear thou art to me:
There weep; for, till my Gaveston be repealed,
Assure thyself thou com’st not in my sight.

O miserable and distressed queen!
Would, when I left sweet France, and was embarked,
That charming Circe, walking on the waves,
Had changed my shape! or at the marriage-day
The cup of Hymen had been full of poison!
Or with those arms, that twined about my neck,
I had been stifled, and not lived to see
The king my lord thus to abandon me!
Like frantic Juno, will I fill the earth
With ghastly murmur of my sighs and cries;
For never doted Jove on Ganymede
So much as he on cursed Gaveston:
But that will more exasperate his wrath;
I must entreat him, I must speak him fair,
And be a means to call home Gaveston:
And yet he’ll ever dote on Gaveston;
And so am I forever miserable.

Look, where the sister of the king of France
Sits wringing of her hands and beats her breast!

Ah, Mortimer, now breaks the king’s hate forth,
And he confesseth that he loves me not!

No, rather will I die a thousand deaths:
And yet I love in vain; he’ll ne’er love me.

Fear ye not, madam; now his minion’s gone,
His wanton humour will be quickly left.

O, never, Lancaster! I am enjoined,
To sue unto you all for his repeal:
This wills my lord, and this must I perform,
Or else be banished from his highness’ presence.

For his repeal, madam! he comes not back,
Unless the sea cast up his shipwrecked body.

And to behold so sweet a sight as that,
There’s none here but would run his horse to death.

Ay, Mortimer, for, till he be restored,
The angry king hath banished me the court;
And, therefore, as thou lov’st and tender’st me,
Be thou my advocate unto these peers.

O, Lancaster, let him dissuade the king!
For ’tis against my will he should return.

Fair queen, forbear to angle for the fish
Which, being caught, strikes him that takes it dead;
I mean that vile torpedo, Gaveston,
That now, I hope, floats on the Irish seas.

Sweet Mortimer, sit down by me a while,
And I will tell thee reasons of such weight
As thou wilt soon subscribe to his repeal.

My lords, albeit the queen win Mortimer,
Will you be resolute and hold with me?

Well, of necessity it must be so.⁠—
My lords, that I abhor base Gaveston
I hope your honours make no question.
And therefore, though I plead for his repeal,
’Tis not for his sake, but to our avail;
Nay, for the realm’s behoof, and for the king’s.

Fie, Mortimer, dishonour not thyself!
Can this be true, ’twas good to banish him?
And is this true, to call him home again?
Such reasons make white black, and dark night day.

This which I urge is of a burning zeal
To mend the king and do our country good.
Know you not Gaveston hath store of gold,
Which may in Ireland purchase him such friends
As he will front the mightiest of us all?
And whereas he shall live and be beloved,
’Tis hard for us to work his overthrow.

But, were he here, detested as he is,
How easily might some base slave be suborned
To greet his lordship with a poniard,
And none so much as blame the murderer,
But rather praise him for that brave attempt,
And in the chronicle enrol his name
For purging of the realm of such a plague!

Because, my lords, it was not thought upon.
Nay, more, when he shall know it lies in us
To banish him, and then to call him home,
’Twill make him vail the top flag of his pride,
And fear to offend the meanest nobleman.

Then may we with some colour rise in arms;
For, howsoever we have borne it out,
’Tis treason to be up against the king;
So shall we have the people of our side,
Which, for his father’s sake, lean to the king,
But cannot brook a night-grown mushroom,
Such a one as my Lord of Cornwall is,
Should bear us down of the nobility:
And, when the commons and the nobles join,
’Tis not the king can buckler Gaveston;
We’ll pull him from the strongest hold he hath.
My lords, if to perform this I be slack,
Think me as base a groom as Gaveston.

In this I count me highly gratified,
And Mortimer will rest at your command.

And when this favour Isabel forgets,
Then let her live abandoned and forlorn.⁠—
But see, in happy time, my lord the king,
Having brought the Earl of Cornwall on his way,
Is new returned. This news will glad him much:
Yet not so much as me; I love him more
Than he can Gaveston: would he loved me
But half so much! then were I treble-blest.

He’s gone, and for his absence thus I mourn:
Did never sorrow go so near my heart
As doth the want of my sweet Gaveston;
And, could my crown’s revenue bring him back,
I would freely give it to his enemies,
And think I gained, having bought so dear a friend.

My heart is as an anvil unto sorrow,
Which beats upon it like the Cyclops’ hammers,
And with the noise turns up my giddy brain,
And makes me frantic for my Gaveston.
Ah, had some bloodless Fury rose from hell,
And with my kingly sceptre struck me dead,
When I was forced to leave my Gaveston!

For thee, fair queen, if thou lov’st Gaveston;
I’ll hang a golden tongue about thy neck,
Seeing thou hast pleaded with so good success.

No other jewels hang about my neck
Than these, my lord; nor let me have more wealth
Than I may fetch from this rich treasury.
O, how a kiss revives poor Isabel!

Once more receive my hand; and let this be
A second marriage ’twixt thyself and me.

And may it prove more happy than the first!
My gentle lord, bespeak these nobles fair,
That wait attendance for a gracious look,
And on their knees salute your majesty.

Courageous Lancaster, embrace thy king;
And, as gross vapours perish by the sun,
Even so let hatred with thy sovereign’s smile:
Live thou with me as my companion.

Warwick shall be my chiefest counsellor:
These silver hairs will more adorn my court
Than gaudy silks or rich embroidery.
Chide me, sweet Warwick, if I go astray.

In solemn triumphs and in public shows
Pembroke shall bear the sword before the king.

But wherefore walks young Mortimer aside?
Be thou commander of our royal fleet;
Or, if that lofty office like thee not,
I make thee here Lord Marshal of the realm.

My lord, I’ll marshal so your enemies,
As England shall be quiet, and you safe.

And as for you, Lord Mortimer of Chirke,
Whose great achievements in our foreign war
Deserve no common place nor mean reward,
Be you the general of the levied troops
That now are ready to assail the Scots.

In this your grace hath highly honoured me,
For with my nature war doth best agree.

Now is the king of England rich and strong,
Having the love of his renowned peers.

Ay, Isabel, ne’er was my heart so light.⁠—
Clerk of the crown, direct our warrant forth,
For Gaveston, to Ireland!

Beaumont, fly
As fast as Iris or Jove’s Mercury.

Lord Mortimer, we leave you to your charge.
Now let us in, and feast it royally.
Against our friend the Earl of Cornwall comes
We’ll have a general tilt and tournament;
And then his marriage shall be solemnised;
For wot you not that I have made him sure
Unto our cousin, the Earl of Gloucester’s heir?

That day, if not for him, yet for my sake,
Who in the triumph will be challenger,
Spare for no cost; we will requite your love.

Nephew, I must to Scotland; thou stay’st here.
Leave now to oppose thyself against the king:
Thou seest by nature he is mild and calm;
And, seeing his mind so dotes on Gaveston,
Let him without controlment have his will.
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.
Then let his grace, whose youth is flexible,
And promiseth as much as we can wish,
Freely enjoy that vain lightheaded earl;
For riper years will wean him from such toys.

Uncle, his wanton humour grieves not me;
But this I scorn, that one so basely-born
Should by his sovereign’s favour grow so pert,
And riot it with the treasure of the realm,
While soldiers mutiny for want of pay.
He wears a lord’s revenue on his back,
And, Midas-like, he jets it in the court,
With base outlandish cullions at his heels,
Whose proud fantastic liveries make such show
As if that Proteus, god of shapes, appeared.
I have not seen a dapper Jack so brisk:
He wears a short Italian hooded cloak,
Larded with pearl, and in his Tuscan cap
A jewel of more value than the crown.
While others walk below, the king and he,
From out a window, laugh at such as we,
And flout our train, and jest at our attire.
Uncle, ’tis this that makes me impatient.

Then so I am, and live to do him service:
But, whiles I have a sword, a hand, a heart,
I will not yield to any such upstart.
You know my mind: come, uncle, let’s away.