_ My lord, I'll marshal so your enemies,
As England shall be quiet, and you safe.
_K. Edw._ And as for you, Lord Mortimer of Chirke,
Whose great achievements in our foreign war
Deserve no common place nor mean reward,
Be you the general of the levied troops
That now are ready to assail the Scots.
_E. Mor._ In this your grace hath highly honour'd me,
For with my nature war doth best agree.
_Q. Isab._ Now is the king of England rich and strong,
Having the love of his renowmed peers.
_K. Edw._ Ay, Isabel, ne'er was my heart so light.--
Clerk of the crown, direct our warrant forth,
For Gaveston, to Ireland!

_Enter_ BEAUMONT _with warrant._

Beaumont, fly
As fast as Iris or Jove's Mercury.
_Beau._ It shall be done, my gracious lord. [_Exit._
_K. Edw._ Lord Mortimer, we leave you to your charge.
Now let us in, and feast it royally.
Against our friend the Earl of Cornwall comes
We'll have a general tilt and tournament;
And then his marriage shall be solemnis'd;
For wot you not that I have made him sure
Unto our cousin, the Earl of Glocester's heir?
_Lan._ Such news we hear, my lord.
_K. Edw._ That day, if not for him, yet for my sake,
Who in the triumph will be challenger,
Spare for no cost; we will requite your love.
_War._ In this or aught your highness shall command us.
_K. Edw._ Thanks, gentle Warwick. Come, lets in and revel.
[_Exeunt all except the elder Mortimer and the
younger Mortimer._
_E. Mor._ Nephew, I must to Scotland; thou stay'st here.
Leave now to oppose thyself against the king:
Thou seest by nature he is mild and calm;
And, seeing his mind so dotes on Gaveston,
Let him without controlment have his will.
The mightiest kings have had their minions;
Great Alexander lov'd Hephaestion,
The conquering Hercules for Hylas wept,
And for Patroclus stern Achilles droop'd
And not kings only, but the wisest men;
The Roman Tully lov'd Octavius,
Grave Socrates wild Alcibiades.
Then let his grace, whose youth is flexible,
And promiseth as much as we can wish,
Freely enjoy that vain light-headed earl;
For riper years will wean him from such toys.
_Y. Mor._ Uncle, his wanton humour grieves not me;
But this I scorn, that one so basely-born
Should by his sovereign's favour grow so pert,