Inhuman creatures, nurs'd with tiger's milk, Why gape you for your sovereign's overthrow?

My diadem, I mean, and guiltless life.

See, monsters, see! I'll wear my crown again.

[_Putting on the crown._ What, fear you not the fury of your king?-- But, hapless Edward, thou art fondly led; They pa.s.s not for thy frowns as late they did, But seek to make a new-elected king; Which fills my mind with strange despairing thoughts, Which thoughts are martyred with endless torments; And in this torment comfort find I none, But that I feel the crown upon my head; And therefore let me wear it yet a while.

_Trus._ My, lord, the parliament must have present news; And therefore say, will you resign or no?

[_The king rageth._ _K. Edw._ I'll not resign, but, whilst I live, [be king].

Traitors, be gone, and join you with Mortimer.

Elect, conspire, install, do what you will: Their blood and yours shall seal these treacheries.

_Bish. of Win._ This answer we'll return; and so, farewell.

[_Going with Trussel._ _Leices._ Call them again, my lord, and speak them fair; For, if they go, the prince shall lose his right.

_K. Edw._ Call thou them back; I have no power to speak.

_Leices._ My lord, the king is willing to resign.

_Bish. of Win._ If he be not, let him choose.

_K. Edw._ O, would I might! but heavens and earth conspire To make me miserable. Here, receive my crown.

Receive it? no, these innocent hands of mine Shall not be guilty of so foul a crime; He of you all that most desires my blood, And will be call'd the murderer of a king, Take it. What, are you mov'd? pity you me?

Then send for unrelenting Mortimer, And Isabel, whose eyes being turn'd to steel Will sooner sparkle fire than shed a tear.

Yet stay; for, rather than I'll look on them, Here, here! [_Gives the crown._]--Now, sweet G.o.d 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!

_Bish. of Win._ My lord,-- _K. Edw._ Call me not lord; away, out of my sight!

Ah, pardon me! grief makes me lunatic.

Let not that Mortimer protect my son; More safety there is in a tiger's jaws Than his embracements. Bear this to the queen, Wet with my tears, and dried again with sighs: [_Gives a handkerchief._ If with the sight thereof she be not mov'd, Return it back, and dip it in my blood.

Commend me to my son, and bid him rule Better than I: yet how have I transgress'd, Unless it be with too much clemency?

_Trus._ And thus, most humbly do we take our leave.

_K. Edw._ Farewell.

[_Exeunt the Bishop of Winchester and Trussel with the crown._ I know the next news that they bring Will be my death; and welcome shall it be: To wretched men death is felicity.

_Leices._ Another post! what news brings he?

_Enter_ BERKELEY, _who gives a paper to_ LEICESTER.

_K. Edw._ Such news as I expect.--Come, Berkeley, come, And tell thy message to my naked breast.

_Berk._ My lord, think not a thought so villanous Can harbour in a man of n.o.ble birth.

To do your highness service and devoir, And save you from your foes, Berkeley would die.

_Leices._ My lord, the council of the queen command That I resign my charge.

_K. Edw._ And who must keep me now? Must you, my lord?

_Berk._ Ay, my most gracious lord; so 'tis decreed.

_K. Edw._ [_Taking the paper._] By Mortimer, whose name is written here!

Well may I rent his name that rends my heart. [_Tears it._ This poor revenge hath something eas'd my mind: So may his limbs be torn as is this paper!

Hear me, immortal Jove, and grant it too!

_Berk._ Your grace must hence with me to Berkeley straight.

_K. Edw._ Whither you will: all places are alike, And every earth is fit for burial.

_Leices._ Favour him, my lord, as much as lieth in you.

_Berk._ Even so betide my soul as I use him!

_K. Edw._ Mine enemy hath pitied my estate, And that's the cause that I am now remov'd.

_Berk._ And thinks your grace that Berkeley will be cruel?

_K. Edw._ I know not; but of this am I a.s.sur'd, That death ends all, and I can die but once.-- Leicester, farewell.

_Leices._ Not yet, my lord; I'll bear you on your way. [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ QUEEN ISABELLA _and the younger_ MORTIMER.

_Y. Mor._ Fair Isabel, now have we our desire; The proud corrupters of the light-brain'd king Have done their homage to the lofty gallows, And he himself lies in captivity.

Be rul'd by me, and we will rule the realm: In any case take heed of childish fear, For now we hold an old wolf by the ears, That, if he slip, will seize upon us both, And gripe the sorer, being grip'd himself.

Think therefore, madam, that imports us much To erect your son with all the speed we may, And that I be protector over him: For our behoof, 'twill bear the greater sway Whenas a king's name shall be under-writ.

_Q. Isab._ Sweet Mortimer, the life of Isabel, Be thou persuaded that I love thee well; And therefore, so the prince my son be safe, Whom I esteem as dear as these mine eyes, Conclude against his father what thou wilt, And I myself will willingly subscribe.

_Y. Mor._ First would I hear news he were depos'd, And then let me alone to handle him.

_Enter_ Messenger.

Letters! from whence?

_Mess._ From Killingworth, my lord?

_Q. Isab._ How fares my lord the king?

_Mess._ In health, madam, but full of pensiveness.

_Q. Isab._ Alas, poor soul, would I could ease his grief!

_Enter the_ BISHOP OF WINCHESTER _with the crown._

Thanks, gentle Winchester.-- Sirrah, be gone. [_Exit Messenger._ _Bish. of Win._ The king hath willingly resign'd his crown.

_Q. Isab._ O, happy news! send for the prince my son.

_Bish. of Win._ Further, or this letter was seal'd, Lord Berkeley came, So that he now is gone from Killingworth; And we have heard that Edmund laid a plot To set his brother free; nor more but so.

The Lord of Berkeley is so pitiful As Leicester that had charge of him before.

_Q. Isab._ Then let some other be his guardian.

_Y. Mor._ Let me alone; here is the privy-seal,-- [_Exit the Bish. of Win._ Who's there? Call hither, Gurney and Matrevis.-- [_To Attendants within._ To dash the heavy-headed Edmund's drift, Berkeley shall be discharg'd, the king remov'd, And none but we shall know where he lieth.

_Q. Isab._ But, Mortimer, as long as he survives, What safety rests for us or for my son?

_Y. Mor._ Speak, shall he presently be despatch'd and die?

_Q. Isab._ I would he were, so 'twere not by my means!

_Enter_ MATREVIS _and_ GURNEY.

_Y. Mor._ Enough.--Matrevis, write a letter presently Unto the Lord of Berkeley from ourself, That he resign the king to thee and Gurney; And, when 'tis done, we will subscribe our name.

_Mat._ It shall be done, my lord. [_Writes._ _Y. Mor._ Gurney,-- _Gur._ My lord?

_Y. Mor._ As thou intend'st to rise by Mortimer, Who now makes Fortune's wheel turn as he please, Seek all the means thou canst to make him droop, And neither give him kind word nor good look.

_Gur._ I warrant you, my lord.

_Y. Mor._ And this above the rest: because we hear That Edmund casts to work his liberty, Remove him still from place to place by night, Till at the last he come to Killingworth, And then from thence to Berkeley back again; And by the way, to make him fret the more, Speak curstly to him; and in any case Let no man comfort him, if he chance to weep, But amplify his grief with bitter words.

_Mat._ Fear not, my lord; we'll do as you command.

_Y. Mor._ So, now away! post thitherwards amain.

_Q. Isab._ Whither goes this letter? to my lord the king?

Commend me humbly to his majesty, And tell him that I labour all in vain To ease his grief and work his liberty; And bear him this as witness of my love. [_Gives ring._ _Mat._ I will, madam. [_Exit with Gurney._ _Y. Mor._ Finely dissembled! do so still, sweet queen.

Here comes the young prince with the Earl of Kent.

_Q. Isab._ Something he whispers in his childish ears.

_Y. Mor._ If he have such access unto the prince, Our plots and stratagems will soon be dash'd.

_Q. Isab._ Use Edmund friendly, as if all were well.

_Enter_ PRINCE EDWARD, _and_ KENT _talking with him._

_Y. Mor._ How fares my honourable Lord of Kent?

_Kent._ In health, sweet Mortimer.--How fares your grace?

_Q. Isab._ Well, if my lord your brother were enlarg'd.

_Kent._ I hear of late he hath depos'd himself.

_Q. Isab._ The more my grief.

_Y. Mor._ And mine.

_Kent._ Ah, they do dissemble! [_Aside._ _Q. Isab._ Sweet son, come hither; I must talk with thee.