_Niece._ The grief for his exile was not so much As is the joy of his returning home. This letter came from my sweet Gaveston: What need'st thou, love, thus to excuse thyself? I know thou couldst not come and visit me. [_Reads._ _I will not long be from thee, though I die;--_ This argues the entire love of my lord;-- [_Reads._ _When I forsake thee, death seize on my heart!--_ But stay thee here where Gaveston shall sleep. [_Puts the letter into her bosom._ Now to the letter of my lord the king: He wills me to repair unto the court, And meet my Gaveston: why do I stay, Seeing that he talks thus of my marriage day?-- Who's there? Baldock! See that my coach be ready; I must hence. _Bald._ It shall be done, madam. _Niece._ And meet me at the park-pale presently [_Exit Baldock._ Spenser, stay you, and bear me company, For I have joyful news to tell thee of; My lord of Cornwall is a-coming over, And will be at the court as soon as we. _Y. Spen._ I knew the king would have him home again. _Niece._ If all things sort out, as I hope they will, Thy service, Spenser, shall be thought upon. _Y. Spen._ I humbly thank your ladyship. _Niece._ Come, lead the way: I long till I am there. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ KING EDWARD, QUEEN ISABELLA, KENT, LANCASTER, _the younger_ MORTIMER, WARWICK, PEMBROKE, _and_ Attendants. _K. Edw._ The wind is good; I wonder why he stays: I fear me he is wreck'd upon the sea. _Q. Isab._ Look, Lancaster, how passionate he is, And still his mind runs on his minion! _Lan._ My lord,-- _K. Edw._ How now! what news? is Gaveston arriv'd? _Y. Mor._ Nothing but Gaveston! what means your grace? You have matters of more weight to think upon: The King of France sets foot in Normandy. _K. Edw._ A trifle! we'll expel him when we please. But tell me, Mortimer, what's thy device Against the stately triumph we decreed? _Y. Mor._ A homely one, my lord, not worth the telling. _K. Edw._ Pray thee, let me know it. _Y. Mor._ But, seeing you are so desirous, thus it is; A lofty cedar tree, fair flourishing, On whose top branches kingly eagles perch, And by the bark a canker creeps me up, And gets unto the highest bough of all; The motto, _AEque tandem._ _K. Edw._ And what is yours, my Lord of Lancaster? _Lan._ My lord, mine's more obscure than Mortimer's. Pliny reports, there is a flying-fish Which all the other fishes deadly hate, And therefore, being pursu'd, it takes the air: No sooner is it up, but there's a fowl That seizeth it: this fish, my lord, I bear; The motto this, _Undique mors est._ _Kent._ Proud Mortimer! ungentle Lancaster! Is this the love you bear your sovereign? Is this the fruit your reconcilement bears? Can you in words make show of amity, And in your shields display your rancorous minds?