Their bloud and yours shall seale these Trecheries.
Bish.
This answere weele returne, and so farewell.
Lei.
Call them againe my Lord, and speake them faire,
For if they goe, the Prince shall lose his right.
Edw.
Call thou them backe, I have no power to speake.
Lei.
My Lord, the King is willing to resigne,
Bish.
If he be not, let him chuse.
Edw.
O would I might, but heavens and earth conspire
To make me miserable: here receive my Crowne,
Receive it? no, these innocent hands of mine
Shall not be guilty of so foule a crime,
He of you all that most desires my bloud,
And will be cald the murtherer of a King,
Take it: what are you mov'd? pitty you me?
Then send for unrelenting Mortimer
And Isabell, whose eyes being turn'd to steele,
Will sooner sparkle fire then shed a teare:
Yet stay, for rather then I will looke on them,
Heere, heere: now sweete God of Heaven,
Make me despise this transitory pompe,
And sit for aye inthronized in Heaven,
Come death, and with thy fingers close my eyes,
Or if I live let me forget my selfe.
Enter Bartley.
Bart.
My Lord.
Edw.
Call me not Lord,
Away, out of my sight, ah pardon me,
Griefe makes me Lunaticke,
Let not that Mortimer protect my sonne,
More safety is there in a Tigers Jawes
Then his imbracements: beare this to the Queene,
Wet with my teares, and dryed againe with sighs,
If with the sight thereof she be not mooved,
Returne it backe, and dip it in my bloud,
Commend me to my Sonne and bid him rule
Better then I, yet how have I transgrest,
Unlesse it be with too much clemency?
Tru.
And thus most humbly do we take our leave.
Edw.
