_Bald._ Spenser, I see our souls are fleeting hence; We are depriv'd the sunshine of our life. Make for a new life, man; throw up thy eyes And heart and hand to heaven's immortal throne; Pay nature's debt with cheerful countenance; Reduce we all our lessons unto this,-- To die, sweet Spenser, therefore live we all; Spenser, all live to die, and rise to fall. _Rice._ Come, come, keep these preachments till you come to the place appointed. You, and such as you are, have made wise work in England. Will your lordships away? _Mow._ Your lordship I trust will remember me? _Rice._ Remember thee, fellow! what else? Follow me to the town. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ KING EDWARD, LEICESTER, _the_ BISHOP OF WINCHESTER, _and_ TRUSSEL. _Leices._ 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. _K. Edw._ Leicester, if gentle words might comfort me, Thy speeches long ago had eas'd my sorrows, For kind and loving hast thou always been. The griefs of private men are soon allay'd; 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 gor'd, 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 Th' ambitious Mortimer would seek to curb, And that unnatural queen, false Isabel, That thus hath pent and mew'd me in a prison For such outrageous passions cloy my soul, As with the wings of rancour and disdain Full oft[ten] 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 controll'd by them, By Mortimer, and my unconstant queen, Who spots my nuptial 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 bleeds within me for this strange exchange. But tell me, must I now resign my crown, To make usurping Mortimer a king? _Bish. of Win._ Your grace mistakes; it is for England's good, And princely Edward's right, we crave the crown. _K. Edw._ No, 'tis for Mortimer, not Edward's head For he's a lamb, emcompassed 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,