As for myself, I stand as Jove’s huge tree,
And others are but shrubs compared to me:
All tremble at my name, and I fear none:
Let’s see who dare impeach me for his death!
Ah, Mortimer, the king my son hath news,
His father’s dead, and we have murdered him!
Ay, but he tears his hair, and wrings his hands,
And vows to be revenged upon us both.
Into the council-chamber he is gone,
To crave the aid and succour of his peers.
Ay me, see where he comes, and they with him!
Now, Mortimer, begins our tragedy.
Think not that I am frighted with thy words:
My father’s murdered through thy treachery;
And thou shalt die, and on his mournful hearse
Thy hateful and accursed head shall lie,
To witness to the world that by thy means
His kingly body was too soon interred.
Forbid not me to weep; he was my father;
And had you loved him half so well as I,
You could not bear his death thus patiently:
But you, I fear, conspired with Mortimer.
Because I think scorn to be accused.
Who is the man dares say I murdered him?
Traitor, in me my loving father speaks,
And plainly saith, ’twas thou that murderedst him.
Ah, Mortimer, thou know’st that he is slain!
And so shalt thou be too.—Why stays he here?
Bring him unto a hurdle, drag him forth;
Hang him, I say, and set his quarters up:
And bring his head back presently to me.
Madam, entreat not: I will rather die
Than sue for life unto a paltry boy.
Base Fortune, now I see, that in thy wheel
There is a point, to which when men aspire,
They tumble headlong down: that point I touched,
And, seeing there was no place to mount up higher,
Why should I grieve at my declining fall?—
Farewell, fair queen: weep not for Mortimer,
That scorns the world, and, as a traveller,
Goes to discover countries yet unknown.
As thou receivest thy life from me,
Spill not the blood of gentle Mortimer!
This argues that you spilt my father’s blood,
Else would you not entreat for Mortimer.
That rumour is untrue: for loving thee,
Is this report raised on poor Isabel.
Mother, you are suspected for his death
And therefore we commit you to the Tower,
Till further trial may be made thereof.
If you be guilty, though I be your son,
Think not to find me slack or pitiful.
Nay, to my death; for too long have I lived,
Whenas my son thinks to abridge my days.
Away with her! her words enforce these tears,
And I shall pity her, if she speak again.
Shall I not mourn for my beloved lord?
And with the rest accompany him to his grave.
My lord, here is the head of Mortimer.
Go fetch my father’s hearse, where it shall lie;
And bring my funeral robes.
Accursed head,
Could I have ruled thee then, as I do now,
Thou hadst not hatched this monstrous treachery!—
Here comes the hearse: help me to mourn, my lords.
Sweet father, here unto thy murdered ghost
I offer up the wicked traitor’s head;
And let these tears, distilling from mine eyes,
Be witness of my grief and innocency.
Colophon
Edward II
was published in 1593 by
Christopher Marlowe.
Ryan Ten
sponsored the production of this ebook for
Standard Ebooks.
by
Alex Cabal,
and is based on a transcription produced in 2007 by
Gustavo Daniel Queipo
for
Project Gutenberg
and on digital scans from
Google Books.
The cover page is adapted from
Edward II and Gaveston,
a painting completed in 1872 by
Marcus Stone.
The cover and title pages feature the
League Spartan and Sorts Mill Goudy
typefaces created in 2014 and 2009 by
The League of Moveable Type.
The first edition of this ebook was released on
August 23, 2024, 7:01 p.m.
You can check for updates to this ebook, view its revision history, or download it for different ereading systems at
standardebooks.org/ebooks/christopher-marlowe/edward-ii.
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