_Queen._ Aye me, poor soul, when these begin to jar. [_Aside._ _Edw._ Return it to their throats, I'll be thy warrant. _Gav._ Base, leaden earls, that glory in your birth, Go sit at home and eat your tenants' beef; And come not here to scoff at Gaveston, Whose mounting thoughts did never creep so low As to bestow a look on such as you. _Lan._ Yet I disdain not to do this for you. [_Draws._ _Edw._ Treason! treason! where's the traitor? 80 _Pem._ Here! here! king.[222] [_Edw._] Convey hence Gaveston; they'll murder him. _Gav._ The life of thee shall salve this foul disgrace. _Y. Mor._ Villain! thy life, unless I miss mine aim. [_Offers to stab him._ _Queen._ Ah! furious Mortimer, what hast thou done? _Y. Mor._ No more than I would answer, were he slain. [_Exit_ GAVESTON _with Attendants._ _Edw._ Yes, more than thou canst answer, though he live; Dear shall you both abide this riotous deed. Out of my presence! come not near the court. _Y. Mor._ I'll not be barred the court for Gaveston. 90 _Lan._ We'll hale him by the ears unto the block. _Edw._ Look to your own heads; his is sure enough. _War._ Look to your own crown, if you back him thus. _Kent._ Warwick, these words do ill beseem thy years. _Edw._ Nay, all of them conspire to cross me thus; But if I live, I'll tread upon their heads That think with high looks thus to tread me down. Come, Edmund, let's away and levy men, 'Tis war that must abate these barons' pride. [_Exeunt the_ KING, QUEEN, _and_ KENT. _War._ Let's to our castles, for the king is moved. 100 _Y. Mor._ Moved may he be, and perish in his wrath! _Lan._ Cousin, it is no dealing with him now, He means to make us stoop by force of arms; And therefore let us jointly here protest, To prosecute that Gaveston to the death. _Y. Mor._ By heaven, the abject villain shall not live! _War._ I'll have his blood, or die in seeking it. _Pem._ The like oath Pembroke takes. _Lan._ And so doth Lancaster. Now send our heralds to defy the king; And make the people swear to put him down. 110 _Enter_ Messenger. _Y. Mor._ Letters! from whence? _Mess._ From Scotland, My lord. [_Giving letters to_ MORTIMER. _Lan._ Why, how now, cousin, how fares all our friends? _Y. Mor._ My uncle's taken prisoner by the Scots. _Lan._ We'll have him ransomed, man; be of good cheer. _Y. Mor._ They rate his ransom at five thousand pound. Who should defray the money but the king, Seeing he is taken prisoner in his wars? I'll to the king. _Lan._ Do, cousin, and I'll bear thee company.