Fair blows the wind for France: blow, gentle gale,
Till Edmund be arrived for England’s good!
Nature, yield to my country’s cause in this!
A brother? no, a butcher of thy friends!
Proud Edward, dost thou banish me thy presence?
But I’ll to France, and cheer the wronged queen,
And certify what Edward’s looseness is.
Unnatural king, to slaughter nobleman
And cherish flatterers! Mortimer, I stay
Thy sweet escape. Stand gracious, gloomy night,
To his device.

Holla! who walketh there?
Is’t you, my lord?

Mortimer, ’tis I.
But hath thy portion wrought so happily?

It hath, my lord: the warders all asleep,
I thank them, gave me leave to pass in peace.
But hath your grace got shipping unto France?

Ah, boy, our friends do fail us all in France!
The lords are cruel, and the king unkind.
What shall we do?

Madam, return to England,
And please my father well; and then a fig
For all my uncle’s friendship here in France!
I warrant you, I’ll win his highness quickly;
’A loves me better than a thousand Spensers.

Ah, boy, thou art deceived, at least in this,
To think that we can yet be tuned together!
No, no, we jar too far.⁠—Unkind Valois!
Unhappy Isabel, when France rejects,
Whither, O, whither dost thou bend thy steps?

Madam, what cheer?

Ah, good Sir John of Hainault,
Never so cheerless nor so far distrest!

I hear, sweet lady, of the king’s unkindness:
But droop not, madam; noble minds contemn
Despair. Will your grace with me to Hainault,
And there stay time’s advantage with your son?⁠—
How say you, my lord! will you go with your friends,
And shake off all our fortunes equally?

So pleaseth the queen my mother, me it likes:
The king of England, not the court of France,
Shall have me from my gracious mother’s side,
Till I be strong enough to break a staff;
And then have at the proudest Spenser’s head!

Well said, my lord!

O my sweet heart, how do I moan thy wrongs,
Yet triumph in the hope of thee, my joy!⁠—
Ah, sweet Sir John, even to the utmost verge
Of Europe, on the shore of Tanais,
Will we with thee to Hainault⁠—so we will:
The marquis is a noble gentleman;
His grace, I dare presume, will welcome me.⁠—
But who are these?

Madam, long may you live,
Much happier than your friends in England do!

Lord Edmund and Lord Mortimer alive!
Welcome to France! the news was here, my lord,
That you were dead, or very near your death.

Lady, the last was truest of the twain:
But Mortimer, reserved for better hap,
Hath shaken off the thraldom of the Tower,
And lives to advance your standard, good my lord.

How mean you, and the king my father lives?
No, my Lord Mortimer, not I, I trow.

Not, son! Why not? I would it were no worse!⁠—
But, gentle lords, friendless we are in France.

Monsieur Le Grand, a noble friend of yours,
Told us, at our arrival, all the news⁠—
How hard the nobles, how unkind the king
Hath showed himself: but, madam, right makes room
Where weapons want; and, though a many friends
Are made away, as Warwick, Lancaster,
And others of our part and faction,
Yet have we friends, assure your grace, in England,
Would cast up caps, and clap their hands for joy,
To see us there, appointed for our foes.

Would all were well, and Edward well reclaimed,
For England’s honour, peace, and quietness!

But by the sword, my lord, ’t must be deserved:
The king will ne’er forsake his flatterers.

My lords of England, sith the ungentle king
Of France refuseth to give aid of arms
To this distressed queen, his sister, here,
Go you with her to Hainault: doubt ye not
We will find comfort, money, men, and friends,
Ere long to bid the English king a base.⁠—
How say’st, young prince, what think you of the match?

Nay, son, not so; and you must not discourage
Your friends that are so forward in your aid.

Sir John of Hainault, pardon us, I pray:
These comforts that you give our woeful queen
Bind us in kindness all at your command.

Yea, gentle brother:⁠—and the God of heaven
Prosper your happy motion, good Sir John!

This noble gentleman, forward in arms,
Was born, I see, to be our anchor-hold.⁠—
Sir John of Hainault, be it thy renown,
That England’s queen and nobles in distress
Have been by thee restored and comforted.

Madam, along; and you, my lords, with me,
That England’s peers may Hainault’s welcome see.

Thus, after many threats of wrathful war,
Triumpheth England’s Edward with his friends,
And triumph Edward with his friends uncontrolled!⁠—
My Lord of Gloucester, do you hear the news?

Why, man, they say there is great execution
Done through the realm.⁠—My Lord of Arundel,
You have the note, have you not?

I pray, let us see it. Takes the note from Arundel. What have we there?
Read it, Spenser. Gives the note to the Younger Spenser, who reads the names.
Why, so: they barked apace a month ago;
Now, on my life, they’ll neither bark nor bite.
Now, sirs, the news from France? Gloucester, I trow,
The lords of France love England’s gold so well
As Isabella gets no aid from thence.
What now remains? have you proclaimed, my lord,
Reward for them can bring in Mortimer?

My lord, we have; and, if he be in England,
’A will be had ere long, I doubt it not.

If, dost thou say? Spenser, as true as death,
He is in England’s ground: our port-masters
Are not so careless of their king’s command.

Letters, my lord, and tidings forth of France:
To you, my Lord of Gloucester, from Levune. Gives letters to the Younger Spenser.

Reading.

“My duty to your honour promised, etc., I have, according to instructions in that behalf, dealt with the King of France and his lords, and effected that the queen, all discontented and discomforted, is gone: whither, if you ask, with Sir John of Hainault, brother to the marquis, into Flanders. 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 battle in England, sooner than he can look for them. This is all the news of import.

Ah, villains, hath that Mortimer escaped?
With him is Edmund gone associate?
And will Sir John of Hainault lead the round?
Welcome, o’ God’s name, madam, and your son!
England shall welcome you and all your rout.
Gallop apace, bright Phbus, through the sky;
And, dusky Night, in rusty iron car,
Between you both shorten the time, I pray,
That I may see that most desired day,
When we may meet these traitors in the field!
Ah, nothing grieves me, but my little boy
Is thus misled to countenance their ills!
Come, friends, to Bristow, there to make us strong:
And, winds, as equal be to bring them in,
As you injurious were to bear them forth!

Now, lords, our loving friends and countrymen,
Welcome to England all, with prosperous winds!
Our kindest friends in Belgia have we left,
To cope with friends at home; a heavy case
When force to force is knit, and sword and glaive
In civil broils make kin and countrymen
Slaughter themselves in others, and their sides
With their own weapons gored! But what’s the help?
Misgoverned kings are cause of all this wreck;
And, Edward, thou art one among them all,
Whose looseness hath betrayed thy land to spoil,
Who made the channel overflow with blood
Of thine own people: patron shouldst thou be;
But thou⁠—

Nay, madam, if you be a warrior,
You must not grow so passionate in speeches.⁠—
Lords, sith that we are, by sufferance of heaven,
Arrived and armed in this prince’s right,
Here for our country’s cause swear we to him
All homage, fealty, and forwardness;
And for the open wrongs and injuries
Edward hath done to us, his queen, and land,
We come in arms to wreck it with the sword;
That England’s queen in peace may repossess
Her dignities and honours; and withal
We may remove these flatterers from the king
That havoc England’s wealth and treasury.

Sound trumpets, my lord, and forward let us march.
Edward will think we come to flatter him.

Fly, fly, my lord! the queen is overstrong;
Her friends do multiply, and yours do fail.
Shape we our course to Ireland, there to breathe.

What! was I born to fly and run away,
And leave the Mortimers conquerors behind?
Give me my horse, and let’s reinforce our troops.
And in this bed of honour die with fame.

O, no, my lord! this princely resolution
Fits not the time: away! we are pursued.

This way he fled, but I am come too late.
Edward, alas, my heart relents for thee!
Proud traitor, Mortimer, why dost thou chase
Thy lawful king, thy sovereign, with thy sword?
Vile wretch, and why hast thou, of all unkind,
Borne arms against thy brother and thy king?
Rain showers of vengeance on my cursed head,
Thou God, to whom in justice it belongs
To punish this unnatural revolt!
Edward, this Mortimer aims at thy life!
O, fly him, then! But, Edmund, calm this rage;
Dissemble, or thou diest; for Mortimer
And Isabel do kiss, while they conspire:
And yet she bears a face of love, forsooth.
Fie on that love that hatcheth death and hate!
Edmund, away! Bristow to Longshanks’ blood
Is false; be not found single for suspect:
Proud Mortimer pries near into thy walks.

Successful battle gives the God of kings
To them that fight in right, and fear in wrath,
Since, then, successfully we have prevailed,
Thanked be heaven’s great architect, and you!
Ere farther we proceed, my noble lords,
We here create our well-beloved son,
Of love and care unto his royal person,
Lord Warden of the realm; and, sith the Fates
Have made his father so infortunate,
Deal you, my lords, in this, my loving lords,
As to your wisdoms fittest seems in all.

Madam, without offence if I may ask
How will you deal with Edward in his fall?

My Lord of Kent, what needs these questions?
’Tis not in her controlment nor in ours;
But as the realm and parliament shall please,
So shall your brother be disposed of.⁠—
Aside to the Queen. I like not this relenting mood in Edmund:
Madam, ’tis good to look to him betimes.

Yea, madam; and they scape not easily
That fled the field.

Baldock is with the king:
A goodly chancellor, is he not, my lord?

God save Queen Isabel and her princely son!
Madam, the Mayor and citizens of Bristow,
In sign of love and duty to this presence,
Present by me this traitor to the state,
Spenser, the father to that wanton Spenser,
That, like the lawless Catiline of Rome,
Revelled in England’s wealth and treasury.

Your loving care in this
Deserveth princely favours and rewards.
But where’s the king and the other Spenser fled?

Spenser the son, created Earl of Gloucester,
Is with that smooth-tongued scholar Baldock gone,
And shipped but late for Ireland with the king.

Aside. Some whirlwind fetch them back, or sink them all!⁠—
They shall be started thence, I doubt it not.

I rue my lord’s ill-fortune: but, alas,
Care of my country called me to this war!

Madam, have done with care and sad complaint:
Your king hath wronged your country and himself,
And we must seek to right it as we may.⁠—
Meanwhile have hence this rebel to the block.

Rebel is he that fights against the prince:
So fought not they that fought in Edward’s right.

You, Rice ap Howel,
Shall do good service to her majesty,
Being of countenance in your country here,
To follow these rebellious runagates.⁠—
We in mean while, madam, must take advice.
How Baldock, Spenser, and their complices,
May in their fall be followed to their end.

Have you no doubt, my lord; have you no fear:
As silent and as careful we will be
To keep your royal person safe with us,
Free from suspect, and fell invasion
Of such as have your majesty in chase,
Yourself, and those your chosen company,
As danger of this stormy time requires.

Father, thy face should harbour no deceit.
O, hadst thou ever been a king, thy heart,
Pierced deeply with sense of my distress,
Could not but take compassion of my state!
Stately and proud in riches and in train,
Whilom I was, powerful and full of pomp:
But what is he whom rule and empery
Have not in life or death made miserable?⁠—
Come, Spenser⁠—come, Baldock⁠—come, sit down by me;
Make trial now of that philosophy
That in our famous nurseries of arts
Thou suckedst from Plato and from Aristotle.⁠—
Father, this life contemplative is heaven:
O, that I might this life in quiet lead!
But we, alas, are chased!⁠—and you, my friends,
Your lives and my dishonour they pursue.⁠—
Yet, gentle monks, for treasure, gold, nor fee,
Do you betray us and our company.

Your grace may sit secure, if none but we
Do wot of your abode.

Not one alive: but shrewdly I suspect
A gloomy fellow in a mead below;
’A gave a long look after us, my lord;
And all the land, I know, is up in arms,
Arms that pursue our lives with deadly hate.

We were embarked for Ireland; wretched we,
With awkward winds and with sore tempests driven,
To fall on shore, and here to pine in fear
Of Mortimer and his confederates!

Mortimer! who talks of Mortimer?
Who wounds me with the name of Mortimer,
That bloody man?⁠—Good father, on thy lap
Lay I this head, laden with mickle care.
O, might I never ope these eyes again!
Never again lift up this drooping head!
O, never more lift up this dying heart!

Look up, my lord.⁠—Baldock, this drowsiness
Betides no good; here even we are betrayed.

Fellow, enough.⁠—My lord, I pray, be short;
A fair commission warrants what we do.

The queen’s commission, urged by Mortimer:
What cannot gallant Mortimer with the queen?⁠—
Alas, see where he sits, and hopes unseen
To escape their hands that seek to reave his life!
Too true it is, Quem dies vidit veniens superbum,
Hunc dies vidit fugiens jacentem.
But, Leicester, leave to grow so passionate.⁠—
Spenser and Baldock, by no other names,
I arrest you of high treason here.
Stand not on titles, but obey the arrest:
’Tis in the name of Isabel the queen.⁠—
My lord, why droop you thus?

O day, the last of all my bliss on earth!
Centre of all misfortune! O my stars,
Why do you lour unkindly on a king?
Comes Leicester, then, in Isabella’s name,
To take my life, my company from me?
Here, man, rip up this panting breast of mine,
And take my heart in rescue of my friends.

It may become thee yet
To let us take our farewell of his grace.

Aside. My heart with pity earns to see this sight;
A king to bear these words and proud commands!

Nay, so will hell and cruel Mortimer:
The gentle heavens have not to do in this.

My lord, it is in vain to grieve or storm.
Here humbly of your grace we take our leaves:
Our lots are cast; I fear me, so is thine.

In heaven we may, in earth ne’er shall we meet:⁠—
And, Leicester, say, what shall become of us?

Here is a litter ready for your grace,
That waits your pleasure, and the day grows old.

A litter hast thou? lay me in a hearse,
And to the gates of hell convey me hence;
Let Pluto’s bells ring out my fatal knell,
And hags howl for my death at Charon’s shore;
For friends hath Edward none but these,
And these must die under a tyrant’s sword.

My lord, be going: care not for these;
For we shall see them shorter by the heads.

Well, that shall be shall be: part we must;
Sweet Spenser, gentle Baldock, part we must.⁠—
Hence, feigned weeds! unfeigned are my woes; Throwing off his disguise.
Father, farewell.⁠—Leicester, thou stay’st for me;
And go I must.⁠—Life, farewell, with my friends!

O! is he gone? is noble Edward gone?
Parted from hence, never to see us more!
Rend, sphere of heaven! and, fire, forsake thy orb!
Earth, melt to air! gone is my sovereign,
Gone, gone, alas, never to make return!

Spenser, I see our souls are fleeting hence;
We are deprived the sunshine of our life.
Make for a new life, man; throw up thy eyes
And heart and hand to heaven’s immortal throne;
Pay nature’s debt with cheerful countenance;
Reduce we all our lessons unto this⁠—
To die, sweet Spenser, therefore live we all;
Spenser, all live to die, and rise to fall.

Come, come, keep these preachments till you come to
the place appointed. You, and such as you are, have
made wise work in England. Will your lordships away?