_Enter_ QUEEN ISABELLA, PRINCE EDWARD, KENT, _the younger_ MORTIMER, _and_ SIR JOHN OF HAINAULT. _Q. Isab._ Now, lords, our loving friends and countrymen, Welcome to England all, with prosperous winds! Our kindest friends in Belgia have we left, To cope with friends at home; a heavy case When force to force is knit, and sword and glaive In civil broils make kin and countrymen Slaughter themselves in others, and their sides With their own weapons gor'd! But what's the help? Misgovern'd kings are cause of all this wreck; And, Edward, thou art one among them all, Whose looseness hath betray'd thy land to spoil, Who made the channel overflow with blood Of thine own people: patron shouldst thou be; But thou-- _Y. Mor._ Nay, madam, if you be a warrior, You must not grow so passionate in speeches.-- Lords, sith that we are, by sufferance of heaven, Arriv'd and armed in this prince's right, Here for our country's cause swear we to him All homage, fealty, and forwardness; And for the open wrongs and injuries Edward hath done to us, his queen, and land, We come in arms to wreck it with the sword; That England's queen in peace may repossess Her dignities and honours; and withal We may remove these flatterers from the king That havock England's wealth and treasury. _Sir J._ Sound trumpets, my lord, and forward let us march. Edward will think we come to flatter him. _Kent._ I would he never had been flatter'd more! [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ KING EDWARD, BALDOCK, _and the younger_ SPENSER. _Y. Spen._ Fly, fly, my lord! the queen is overstrong; Her friends do multiply, and yours do fail. Shape we our course to Ireland, there to breathe. _K. Edw._ What, was I born to fly and run away, And leave the Mortimers conquerors behind? Give me my horse, and let's reinforce our troops. And in this bed of honour die with fame. _Bald._ O, no, my lord! this princely resolution Fits not the time: away! we are pursu'd. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ KENT, _with a sword and target._ _Kent._ This way he fled; but I am come too late. Edward, alas, my heart relents for thee! Proud traitor, Mortimer, why dost thou chase Thy lawful king, thy sovereign, with thy sword? Vile wretch, and why hast thou, of all unkind, Borne arms against thy brother and thy king? Rain showers of vengeance on my cursed head, Thou God, to whom in justice it belongs To punish this unnatural revolt! Edward, this Mortimer aims at thy life: O, fly him, then! But, Edmund, calm this rage; Dissemble, or thou diest; for Mortimer And Isabel do kiss, while they conspire: And yet she bears a face of love, forsooth: Fie on that love that hatcheth death and hate! Edmund, away! Bristow to Longshanks' blood Is false; be not found single for suspect: Proud Mortimer pries near into thy walks.