Enter Gavestone reading on a Letter that was brought him from the King.
My Father is deceast, come Gavestone,
And share the Kingdome with thy deerest friend.
Ah words that make me surfet with delight,
What greater blisse can hap to Gaveston,
Then live and be the Favorite of a King?
Sweete Prince I come: These these, thy amorous lines
Might have enforst me to have swum from France,
And like Leander gaspt upon the sand,
So thou wouldst smile and take me in thine armes.
The sight of London to my exil'd eyes,
Is as Elizium to a new come soule,
Not that I love the City or the men,
But that it harbors him I hold so deere,
The King, upon whose bosome let me dye,
And with the world be still at enmity:
What need the Articke people love star-light,
To whom the sunne shines both by day and night.
Farewell base stooping to the Lordly Peeres,
My knees shall bow to none but to the King,
As for the multitude that are but sparkes
Rakt up in embers, of their poverty,
Tanti: Ile fanne first on the winde,
That glaunceth at my lips and flyeth away:
But how now, what are these?
Enter three poore men.
Such as desire your worships service.
Gavest.
What canst thou doe?
1. Poore.
I can ride.
Gavest.
But I have no horse. What art thou?
2. Poore.
A Traveller.
Gavest.
Let me see, thou wouldst doe well
To waite at my Trencher, and tell me lies at dinner time,
And
