_Enter a_ Messenger.

How now! what news with thee? from whence come these?
_Mess._ Letters, my lord, and tidings forth of France:
To you, my Lord of Glocester, from Levune.
[_Gives letters to young Spenser._
_K. Edw._ Read.
_Y. Spen._ [reading.] _My duty to your honour promised, etc., I
have, according to instructions in that behalf, dealt with the
King of France and his lords, and effected that the queen, all
discontented and discomforted, is gone: whither, if you ask,
with Sir John of Hainault, brother to the marquis, into
Flanders. With them are gone Lord Edmund and the Lord
Mortimer, having in their company divers of your nation,
and others; and, as constant report goeth, they intend to
give King Edward battle in England, sooner than he can
look for them. This is all the news of import.
Your honour's in all service, Levune._
_K. Edw._ Ah, villains, hath that Mortimer escap'd?
With him is Edmund gone associate?
And will Sir John of Hainault lead the round?
Welcome, o' God's name, madam, and your son!
England shall welcome you and all your rout.
Gallop apace, bright Phoebus, through the sky;
And, dusky Night, in rusty iron car,
Between you both shorten the time, I pray,
That I may see that most desired day,
When we may meet these traitors in the field!
Ah, nothing grieves me, but my little boy
Is thus misled to countenance their ills!
Come, friends, to Bristow, there to make us strong:
And, winds, as equal be to bring them in,
As you injurious were to bear them forth! [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ QUEEN ISABELLA, PRINCE EDWARD, KENT, _the
younger_ MORTIMER, _and_ SIR JOHN OF HAINAULT.

_Q. Isab._ Now, lords, our loving friends and countrymen,
Welcome to England all, with prosperous winds!
Our kindest friends in Belgia have we left,
To cope with friends at home; a heavy case
When force to force is knit, and sword and glaive
In civil broils make kin and countrymen
Slaughter themselves in others, and their sides
With their own weapons gor'd! But what's the help?
Misgovern'd kings are cause of all this wreck;
And, Edward, thou art one among them all,
Whose looseness hath betray'd thy land to spoil,
Who made the channel overflow with blood
Of thine own people: patron shouldst thou be;
But thou--