My lord, you shall be Chancellor of the realm; Thou, Lancaster, High Admiral of the 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, 70 And share it equally amongst you all, So I may have some nook or corner left, To frolic with my dearest Gaveston.

_Archbish._ Nothing shall alter us--we are resolved.

_Lan._ Come, come, subscribe.

_Y. Mor._ Why should you love him whom the world hates so?

_Edw._ 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[194] n.o.ble born should pity him. 80

_War._ You that are princely born should shake him off: For shame subscribe, and let the lown[195] depart.

_E. Mor._ Urge him, my lord.

_Archbish._ Are you content to banish him the realm?

_Edw._ I see I must, and therefore am content: Instead of ink I'll write it with my tears. [_Subscribes._

_Y. Mor._ The king is love-sick for his minion.

_Edw._ 'Tis done--and now, accursed hand, fall off!

_Lan._ Give it me--I'll have it published in the streets.

_Y. Mor._ I'll see him presently despatched away. 90

_Archbish._ Now is my heart at ease.

_War._ And so is mine.

_Pem._ This will be good news to the common sort.

_E. Mor._ Be it or no, he shall not linger here.

[_Exeunt_ n.o.bles.

_Edw._ 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, For[196] these thy superst.i.tious taper-lights, Wherewith thy antichristian churches blaze, I'll fire thy crazed buildings, and enforce 100 The papal towers to kiss the lowly ground![197]

With slaughtered priests make[198] 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.

_Enter_ GAVESTON.

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

_Edw._ '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. 110 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.

_Gav._ Is all my hope turned to this h.e.l.l of grief?

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

_Gav._ To go from hence grieves not poor Gaveston; But to forsake you, in whose gracious looks 120 The blessedness of Gaveston remains: For nowhere else seeks he felicity.

_Edw._ 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; [_They exchange pictures._ O, might I keep thee here as I do this, Happy were I! but now most miserable!

_Gav._ 'Tis something to be pitied of a king. 130

_Edw._ Thou shalt not hence--I'll hide thee, Gaveston.

_Gav._ I shall be found, and then 'twill grieve me more.

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

_Gav._ For every look, my lord[199] drops down a tear: Seeing I must go, do not renew my sorrow.

_Edw._ 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. 140

_Gav._ The peers will frown.

_Edw._ I pa.s.s[200] not for their anger--Come, let's go; O that we might as well return as go.

_Enter_ KENT[201] _and_ QUEEN ISABEL.

_Queen._ Whither goes my lord?

_Edw._ Fawn not on me, French strumpet! get thee gone.

_Queen._ On whom but on my husband should I fawn?

_Gav._ On Mortimer! with whom, ungentle queen-- I say no more--judge you the rest, my lord.

_Queen._ In saying this, thou wrong'st me, Gaveston; Is't not enough that thou corrupt'st my lord, 150 And art a bawd to his affections, But thou must call mine honour thus in question?

_Gav._ I mean not so; your grace must pardon me.

_Edw._ 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.

_Queen._ Your highness knows it lies not in my power.

_Edw._ Away then! touch me not--Come, Gaveston.

_Queen._ Villain! 'tis thou that robb'st me of my lord. 160

_Gav._ Madam, 'tis you that rob me of my lord.