will ransom him, or else--
_Kent._ What, Mortimer, you will not threaten him?
_K. Edw._ Quiet yourself; you shall have the broad seal,
To gather for him th[o]roughout the realm.
_Lan._ Your minion Gaveston hath taught you this.
_Y. Mor._ My lord, the family of the Mortimers
Are not so poor, but, would they sell their land,
'Twould levy men enough to anger you.
We never beg, but use such prayers as these.
_K. Edw._ Shall I still be haunted thus?
_Y. Mor._ Nay, now you are here alone, I'll speak my mind.
_Lan._ And so will I; and then, my lord, farewell.
_Y. Mor._ The idle triumphs, masks, lascivious shows,
And prodigal gifts bestow'd on Gaveston,
Have drawn thy treasury dry, and made thee weak;
The murmuring commons, overstretched, break.
_Lan._ Look for rebellion, look to be depos'd:
Thy garrisons are beaten out of France,
And, lame and poor, lie groaning at the gates;
The wild Oneil, with swarms of Irish kerns,
Lives uncontroll'd within the English pale;
Unto the walls of York the Scots make road,
And, unresisted, drive away rich spoils.
_Y. Mor._ The haughty Dane commands the narrow seas,
While in the harbour ride thy ships unrigg'd.
_Lan._ What foreign prince sends thee ambassadors?
_Y. Mor._ Who loves thee, but a sort of flatterers?
_Lan._ Thy gentle queen, sole sister to Valois,
Complains that thou hast left her all forlorn.
_Y. Mor._ Thy court is naked, being bereft of those
That make a king seem glorious to the world,
I mean the peers, whom thou shouldst dearly love;
Libels are cast against thee in the street;
Ballads and rhymes made of thy overthrow.
_Lan._ The northern borderers, seeing their houses burnt,
Their wives and children slain, run up and down,
Cursing the name of thee and Gaveston.
_Y. Mor._ When wert thou in the field with banner spread,
But once? and then thy soldiers march'd like players,
With garish robes, not armour; and thyself,
Bedaub'd with gold, rode laughing at the rest,
Nodding and shaking of thy spangled crest,
Where women's favours hung like labels down.
_Lan._ And thereof came it that the fleering Scots,
To England's high disgrace, have made this jig;
_Maids of England, sore may you mourn,
For your lemans you have lost at Bannocksbourn,--
With a heave and a ho!
What weeneth the king of England
So soon to have won Scotland!--
With a rombelow!_
_Y. Mor._ Wigmore shall fly, to s