Edm.
Mortimer tis I, but hath thy potion wrought so happily?
Mor.
It hath my Lord, the Warders all asleepe,
I thanke them, gave me leave to passe in peace.
But hath your Grace got shipping unto France?
Edm.
Feare it not. Exeunt.
Enter the Queene and her sonne.
Qu.
Ah Boy, our friends do faile us all in France:
The Lords are cruell and the King unkind,
What shall we doe?
Prince.
Madam, returne to England,
And please my Father well, and then a Fig
For all my Uncles friendship heere in France,
I warrant you Ile winne his Highnesse quickly,
A loves me better than a thousand Spencers.
Qu
Ah Boy, thou art deceiv'd at least in this,
To thinke that we can yet be tun'd together,
No, no, we jarre too farre, unkinde Valoys,
Unhappy Isabell, when France rejects,
Whither, O whither dost thou bend thy steps?
Enter Sir John of Henolt.
S. John.
Madam, what cheere?
Qu
A good Sir John of Henolt,
Never so cheerelesse, nor so farre distrest.
S. John.
I heare sweete Lady of the Kings unkindenesse,
But droope not Madam, Noble minds contemne
Despaire: will your Grace with me to Henolt,
And there stay times advantage with your sonne?
How say you my Lord, will you goe with your friends,
And shake off all our fortunes equally?
Prin.
So pleaseth the Queene my Mother, me it likes,
The King of England, nor the Court of France,
Shall have me from my gratious Mothers side,
Till I be strong enough to breake a staffe,
And then have at the proudest Spencers head.
Sir John.
Well said my Lord.
Qu
Oh my sweete heart, how do I mone thy wrongs?
Yet triumph in the hope of thee my joy,
Ah
