_Queen._ Ah, Mortimer, the king my son hath news His father's dead, and we have murdered him. _Y. Mor._ What if he have? the king is yet a child. _Queen._ I,[340] but he tears his hair, and wrings his hands, And vows to be revenged upon us both. Into the council-chamber he is gone, 20 To crave the aid and succour of his peers. Aye me! see where he comes, and they with him; Now, Mortimer, begins our tragedy. _Enter the_ KING, _with the_ Lords. _First[341] Lord._ Fear not, my lord, know that you are a king. _King._ Villain! _Y. Mor._ Ho,[342] now, my lord! _King._ 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 accursèd head shall lie, To witness to the world, that by thy means 30 His kingly body was too soon interred. _Queen._ Weep not, sweet son! _King._ Forbid me not 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. _First[343] Lord._ Why speak you not unto my lord the king? _Y. Mor._ Because I think scorn to be accused. Who is the man dares say I murdered him? _King._ Traitor! in me my loving father speaks, 40 And plainly saith, 'twas thou that murder'dst him. _Y. Mor._ But has your grace no other proof than this? _King._ Yes, if this be the hand of Mortimer. _Y. Mor._ False Gurney hath betrayed me and himself. [_Aside._ _Queen._ I feared as much; murder cannot be hid. [_Aside._ _Y. Mor._ It is my hand; what gather you by this? _King._ That thither thou didst send a murderer. _Y. Mor._ What murderer? Bring forth the man I sent. _King._ I, Mortimer, thou knowest that he is slain; And so shalt thou be too. Why stays he here? 50 Bring him unto a hurdle, drag him forth, Hang him, I say, and set his quarters up, But bring his head back presently to me. _Queen._ For my sake, sweet son, pity Mortimer. _Y. Mor._ Madam, entreat not, I will rather die, Than sue for life unto a paltry boy. _King._ Hence with the traitor! with the murderer! _Y. Mor._ 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, 60 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.