_Bald._ Spencer, thou know'st I hate such formal toys, And use them but of mere hypocrisy. Mine old lord while he lived was so precise, That he would take exceptions at my buttons, And being like pins' heads, blame me for the bigness; Which made me curate-like in mine attire, Though inwardly licentious enough, 50 And apt for any kind of villainy. I am none of these common pedants, I, That cannot speak without _propterea quod_. _Y. Spen._ But one of those that saith, _quandoquidem_, And hath a special gift to form a verb. _Bald._ Leave off this jesting, here my lady comes. _Enter the_ Lady. _Lady._ The grief for his exile was not so much, As is the joy of his returning home. This letter came from my sweet Gaveston: What need'st thou, love, thus to excuse thyself? 60 I know thou could'st not come and visit me: _I will not long be from thee, though I die._ [_Reads._ This argues the entire love of my lord; _When I forsake thee, death seize on my heart:_ [_Reads._ But stay[215] thee here where Gaveston shall sleep. Now to the letter of my lord the king.-- He wills me to repair unto the court, And meet my Gaveston? why do I stay, Seeing that he talks thus of my marriage-day? Who's there? Baldock! 70 See that my coach be ready, I must hence. _Bald._ It shall be done, madam. [_Exit._ _Lady._ And meet me at the park-pale presently. Spencer, stay you and bear me company, For I have joyful news to tell thee of; My lord of Cornwall is a coming over, And will be at the court as soon as we. _Spen._ I knew the king would have him home again. _Lady._ If all things sort out, as I hope they will, Thy service, Spencer, shall be thought upon. 80 _Spen._ I humbly thank your ladyship. _Lady._ Come, lead the way; I long till I am there. [_Exeunt._ SCENE II. _Enter_[216] EDWARD, _the_ QUEEN, LANCASTER, YOUNG MORTIMER, WARWICK, PEMBROKE, KENT, _and_ Attendants. _Edw._ The wind is good, I wonder why he stays; I fear me he is wrecked upon the sea. _Queen._ Look, Lancaster, how passionate he is, And still his mind runs on his minion! _Lan._ My lord. _Edw._ How now! what news? is Gaveston arrived? _Y. Mor._ Nothing but Gaveston! what means your grace? You have matters of more weight to think upon; The King of France sets foot in Normandy. _Edw._ A trifle! we'll expel him when we please. 10 But tell me, Mortimer, what's thy device Against the stately triumph we decreed? _Y. Mor._ A homely one, my lord, not worth the telling. _Edw._ Pray thee let me know it.