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Enter King Edward, Leicester, the Bishop of Winchester and Trussel. |
| Leicester |
Be patient, good my lord, cease to lament;
Imagine Killingworth Castle were your court,
And that you lay for pleasure here a space,
Not of compulsion or necessity.
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| King Edward |
Leicester, if gentle words might comfort me,
Thy speeches long ago had eased my sorrows,
For kind and loving hast thou always been.
The griefs of private men are soon allayed;
But not of kings. The forest deer, being struck,
Runs to an herb that closeth up the wounds:
But when the imperial lion’s flesh is gored,
He rends and tears it with his wrathful paw,
And, highly scorning that the lowly earth
Should drink his blood, mounts up to the air:
And so it fares with me, whose dauntless mind
The ambitious Mortimer would seek to curb,
And that unnatural queen, false Isabel,
That thus hath pent and mewed me in a prison
For such outrageous passions cloy my soul,
As with the wings of rancour and disdain
Full often am I soaring up to heaven,
To plain me to the gods against them both.
But when I call to mind I am a king,
Methinks I should revenge me of my wrongs,
That Mortimer and Isabel have done.
But what are kings, when regiment is gone,
But perfect shadows in a sunshine day?
My nobles rule; I bear the name of king,
I wear the crown; but am controlled by them,
By Mortimer, and my unconstant queen,
Who spots my nuptial bed with infamy;
Whilst I am lodged within this cave of care,
Where sorrow at my elbow still attends,
To company my heart with sad laments,
That bleeds within me for this strange exchange.
But tell me, must I now resign my crown,
To make usurping Mortimer a king?
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| Bishop of Winchester |
Your grace mistakes; it is for England’s good,
And princely Edward’s right, we crave the crown.
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| King Edward |
No, ’tis for Mortimer, not Edward’s head;
For he’s a lamb, encompassed by wolves,
Which in a moment will abridge his life.
But, if proud Mortimer do wear this crown,
Heavens turn it to a blaze of quenchless fire!
Or, like the snaky wreath of Tisiphon,
Engirt the temples of his hateful head!
So shall not England’s vine be perished,
But Edward’s name survive, though Edward dies.
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| Leicester |
My lord, why waste you thus the time away?
They stay your answer: will you yield your crown?
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| King Edward |
Ah, Leicester, weigh how hardly I can brook
To lose my crown and kingdom without cause;
To give ambitious Mortimer my right,
That, like a mountain, overwhelms my bliss;
In which extreme my mind here murdered is!
But that the heavens appoint I must obey.—
Here, take my crown; the life of Edward too: Taking off the crown.
Two kings in England cannot reign at once.
But stay a while: let me be king till night,
That I may gaze upon this glittering crown;
So shall my eyes receive their last content,
My head, the latest honour due to it,
And jointly both yield up their wished right.
Continue ever, thou celestial sun;
Let never silent night possess this clime;
Stand still, you watches of the element;
All times and seasons, rest you at a stay,
That Edward may be still fair England’s king!
But day’s bright beams doth vanish fast away,
And needs I must resign my wished crown.
Inhuman creatures, nursed 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 pass 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.
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| Trussel |
My, lord, the parliament must have present news;
And therefore say, will you resign or no?
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| King Edward |
The king rageth. I’ll not resign, not whilst I live.
Traitors, be gone, and join you with Mortimer.
Elect, conspire, install, do what you will:
Their blood and yours shall seal these treacheries!
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| Bishop of Winchester |
This answer we’ll return; and so, farewell. Going with Trussel. |
| Leicester |
Call them again, my lord, and speak them fair;
For, if they go, the prince shall lose his right.
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| King Edward |
Call thou them back; I have no power to speak. |
| Leicester |
My lord, the king is willing to resign. |
| Bishop of Winchester |
If he be not, let him choose. |
| King Edward |
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 called the murderer of a king,
Take it. What, are you moved? pity you me?
Then send for unrelenting Mortimer,
And Isabel, whose eyes being turned 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 God of heaven,
Make me despise this transitory pomp,
And sit for aye enthronised in heaven!
Come, death, and with thy fingers close my eyes,
Or, if I live, let me
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