_Edw._ No, spare his life, but seize upon his goods: Be thou lord bishop and receive his rents, And make him serve thee as thy chaplain: I give him thee--here, use him as thou wilt. _Gav._ He shall to prison, and there die in bolts. _Edw._ I, to the Tower, the Fleet, or where thou wilt. _Bish._ For this offence, be thou accurst of God! _Edw._ Who's there? Convey this priest to the Tower. _Bish._ True, true.[181] 200 _Edw._ But in the meantime, Gaveston, away, And take possession of his house and goods. Come, follow me, and thou shalt have my guard To see it done, and bring thee safe again. _Gav._ What should a priest do with so fair a house? A prison may best[182] beseem his holiness. [_Exeunt._ SCENE II. _Enter_[183] _both the_ MORTIMERS, WARWICK, _and_ LANCASTER. _War._ 'Tis true, the bishop is in the Tower, And goods and body given to Gaveston. _Lan._ What! will they tyrannise upon the church? Ah, wicked king! accursed Gaveston! This ground, which is corrupted with their steps, Shall be their timeless[184] sepulchre or mine. _Y. Mor._ Well, let that peevish Frenchman guard him sure; Unless his breast be sword-proof he shall die. _E. Mor._ How now, why droops the Earl of Lancaster? _Y. Mor._ Wherefore is Guy of Warwick discontent? 10 _Lan._ That villain Gaveston is made an earl. _E. Mor._ An earl! _War._ I, and besides Lord Chamberlain of the realm, And Secretary too, and Lord of Man. _E. Mor._ We may not, nor we will not suffer this. _Y. Mor._ Why post we not from hence to levy men? _Lan._ "My Lord of Cornwall," now at every word! And happy is the man whom he vouchsafes, For vailing of his bonnet, one good look. Thus, arm in arm, the king and he doth march: 20 Nay more, the guard upon his lordship waits; And all the court begins to flatter him. _War_. Thus leaning on the shoulder of the king, He nods and scorns, and smiles at those that pass. _E. Mor._ Doth no man take exceptions at the slave? _Lan._ All stomach[185] him, but none dare speak a word. _Y. Mor._ Ah, that bewrays their baseness, Lancaster. Were all the earls and barons of my mind, We'd[186] hale him from the bosom of the king, And at the court-gate hang the peasant up; 30 Who, swoln with venom of ambitious pride, Will be the ruin of the realm and us. _Enter the_ ARCHBISHOP _of_ CANTERBURY _and a_ Messenger. _War._ Here comes my Lord of Canterbury's grace. _Lan._ His countenance bewrays he is displeased.