_Edw._ My heart is as an anvil unto sorrow, Which beats upon it like the Cyclops' hammers, And with the noise turns up my giddy brain, And makes me frantic for my Gaveston. Ah! had some bloodless fury rose from hell, And with my kingly sceptre struck me dead, When I was forced to leave my Gaveston! _Lan._ Diablo! what passions call you these? _Queen._ My gracious lord, I come to bring you news. 320 _Edw._ That you have parled with your Mortimer? _Queen._ That Gaveston, my lord, shall be repealed. _Edw._ Repealed! the news is too sweet to be true! _Queen._ But will you love me, if you find it so? _Edw._ If it be so, what will not Edward do? _Queen._ For Gaveston, but not for Isabel. _Edw._ For thee, fair queen, if thou lov'st Gaveston, I'll hang a golden tongue about thy neck, Seeing thou hast pleaded with so good success. _Queen._ No other jewels hang about my neck 330 Than these, my lord; nor let me have more wealth Than I may fetch from this rich treasury-- O how a kiss revives poor Isabel! _Edw._ Once more receive my hand; and let this be A second marriage 'twixt thyself and me. _Queen._ And may it prove more happy than the first! My gentle lord, bespeak these nobles fair, That wait attendance for a gracious look, And on their knees salute your majesty. _Edw._ Courageous Lancaster, embrace thy king; 340 And, as gross vapours perish by the sun, Even so let hatred with thy sovereign's[208] smile. Live thou with me as my companion. _Lan._ This salutation overjoys my heart. _Edw._ Warwick shall be my chiefest counsellor: These silver hairs will more adorn my court Than gaudy silks, or rich embroidery. Chide me, sweet Warwick, if I go astray. _War._ Slay me, my lord, when I offend your grace. _Edw._ In solemn triumphs, and in public shows, 350 Pembroke shall bear the sword before the king. _Pem._ And with this sword Pembroke will fight for you. _Edw._ But wherefore walks young Mortimer aside? Be thou commander of our royal fleet; Or, if that lofty office like thee not, I make thee here Lord Marshal of the realm. _Y. Mor._ My lord, I'll marshal so your enemies, As England shall be quiet, and you safe. _Edw._ And as for you, Lord Mortimer of Chirke, Whose great achievements in our foreign war 360 Deserves no common place, nor mean reward; Be you the general of the levied troops, That now are ready to assail the Scots. _E. Mor._ In this your grace hath highly honoured me, For with my nature war doth best agree. _Queen._ Now is the king of England rich and strong, Having the love of his renownéd peers.