_Y. Mor._ But, seeing you are so desirous, thus it is: A lofty cedar-tree, fair flourishing, On whose top-branches kingly eagles perch, And by the bark a canker creeps me up, And gets into the highest bough of all: The motto, _Æque tandem_. 20 _Edw._ And what is yours, my lord of Lancaster? _Lan._ My lord, mine's more obscure than Mortimer's. Pliny[217] reports there is a[218] flying fish Which all the other fishes deadly hate, And therefore, being pursued, it takes the air: No sooner is it up, but there's a fowl That seizeth it: this fish, my lord, I bear, The motto this: _Undique mors est_. _Kent._[219] Proud Mortimer! ungentle Lancaster! Is this the love you bear your sovereign? 30 Is this the fruit your reconcilement bears? Can you in words make show of amity, And in your shields display your rancorous minds! What call you this but private libelling Against the Earl of Cornwall and my brother? _Queen._ Sweet husband, be content, they all love you. _Edw._ They love me not that hate my Gaveston. I am that cedar, shake me not too much; And you the eagles; soar ye ne'er so high, I have the jesses[220] that will pull you down; 40 And _Æque tandem_ shall that canker cry Unto the proudest peer of Britainy. Though thou compar'st him to a flying fish, And threatenest death whether he rise or fall, 'Tis not the hugest monster of the sea, Nor foulest harpy that shall swallow him. _Y. Mor._ If in his absence thus he favours him, What will he do whenas he shall be present? _Lan._ That shall we see; look where his lordship comes. _Enter_ GAVESTON. _Edw._ My Gaveston! 50 Welcome to Tynemouth! welcome to thy friend! Thy absence made me droop and pine away; For, as the lovers of fair Danae, When she was locked up in a brazen tower, Desired her more, and waxed outrageous, So did it fare[221] with me: and now thy sight Is sweeter far than was thy parting hence Bitter and irksome to my sobbing heart. _Gav._ Sweet lord and king, your speech preventeth mine, Yet have I words left to express my joy: 60 The shepherd nipt with biting winter's rage Frolics not more to see the painted spring, Than I do to behold your majesty. _Edw._ Will none of you salute my Gaveston? _Lan._ Salute him? yes; welcome, Lord Chamberlain! _Y. Mor._ Welcome is the good Earl of Cornwall! _War._ Welcome, Lord Governor of the Isle of Man! _Pem._ Welcome, Master Secretary! _Kent._ Brother, do you hear them? _Edw._ Still will these earls and barons use me thus. 70 _Gav._ My lord, I cannot brook these injuries.