_Gav._ On Mortimer! with whom, ungentle queen-- I say no more--judge you the rest, my lord. _Queen._ In saying this, thou wrong'st me, Gaveston; Is't not enough that thou corrupt'st my lord, 150 And art a bawd to his affections, But thou must call mine honour thus in question? _Gav._ I mean not so; your grace must pardon me. _Edw._ Thou art too familiar with that Mortimer, And by thy means is Gaveston exiled; But I would wish thee reconcile the lords, Or thou shalt ne'er be reconciled to me. _Queen._ Your highness knows it lies not in my power. _Edw._ Away then! touch me not--Come, Gaveston. _Queen._ Villain! 'tis thou that robb'st me of my lord. 160 _Gav._ Madam, 'tis you that rob me of my lord. _Edw._ Speak not unto her; let her droop and pine. _Queen._ Wherein, my lord, have I deserved these words? Witness the tears that Isabella sheds, Witness this heart, that sighing for thee, breaks, How dear my lord is to poor Isabel. _Edw._ And witness heaven how dear thou art to me: There weep: for till my Gaveston be repealed, Assure thyself thou com'st not in my sight. [_Exeunt_ EDWARD _and_ GAVESTON. _Queen._ O miserable and distressèd queen! 170 Would, when I left sweet France and was embarked, That charming Circe[202] walking on the waves, Had changed my shape, or at[203] the marriage-day The cup of Hymen had been full of poison, Or with those arms that twined about my neck I had been stifled, and not lived to see The king my lord thus to abandon me! Like frantic Juno will I fill the earth With ghastly murmur of my sighs and cries; For never doated Jove on Ganymede 180 So much as he on cursed Gaveston: But that will more exasperate his wrath: I must entreat him, I must speak him fair, And be a means to call home Gaveston: And yet he'll ever doat on Gaveston: And so am I for ever miserable. _Enter the_ Nobles. _Lan._ Look where the sister of the king of France Sits wringing of her hands, and beats her breast! _War._ The king, I fear, hath ill-entreated her. _Pem._ Hard is the heart that injuries[204] such a saint. 190 _Y. Mor._ I know 'tis 'long of Gavestone she weeps. _E. Mor._ Why, he is gone. _Y. Mor._ Madam, how fares your grace? _Queen._ Ah, Mortimer! now breaks the king's hate forth, And he confesseth that he loves me not. _Y. Mor._ Cry quittance, madam, then; and love not him. _Queen._ No, rather will I die a thousand deaths: And yet I love in vain--he'll ne'er love me. _Lan._ Fear ye not, madam; now his minion's gone, His wanton humour will be quickly left.