Should drinke his bloud, mounts up into the ayre:
And so it fares with me, whose dauntlesse mind
The ambitious Mortimer would seeke to curbe,
And that unnaturall Queene false Isabell,
That thus hath pent and mu'd me in a prison,
For such outragious passions cloy my soule,
As with the wings of rancour and disdaine
Full oft am I soaring up to Heaven,
To plaine me to the Gods against them both:
But when I call to mind I am a King,
Me thinkes I should revenge me of my wrongs,
That Mortimer and Isabell have done.
But what are Kings, when regiment is gone,
But perfect shadowes in a sun-shine day?
My Nobles rule, I beare the name of King,
I weare the Crowne, but am contrould by them,
By Mortimer, and my unconstant Queene,
Who spots my nuptiall bed with infamy,
Whilst I am lodg'd within this Cave of care,
Where sorrow at my elbow still attends,
To company my heart with sad laments,
That bleedes within me for this strange exchange.
But tell me must I now resigne my Crowne,
To make usurping Mortimer a King?
Bish.
Your Grace mistakes, it is for Englands good,
And Princely Edwards right, we crave the Crowne.
Edward.
No, tis for Mortimer, not Edwards head,
For hees a Lambe, encompassed by Wolves,
Which in a moment will abridge his life:
But if proud Mortimer doe weare this Crowne,
Heavens turne it to a blaze of quenchelesse fire,
Or like the snaky wreath of Tisiphon,
Engirt the Temples of his hatefull head,
So shall not Englands Vines be perished,
But Edwards name survive, though Edward dies.
Leist.
My Lord, why waste you thus the time away,
They stay your answere, will you yeeld your Crowne?
Edward.
Ah Leister, weigh how hardly I can brooke
To
