Queen. I, Mortimer, the miserable queen, Whose pining heart her inward sighs have blasted, And body with continual mourning wasted: These hands are tired with haling of my lord From Gaveston, from wicked Gaveston, And all in vain; for, when I speak him fair, He turns away, and smiles upon his minion.
Y. Mor. Cease to lament, and tell us where's the king?
Queen. What would you with the king? is't him you seek?30
Lan. No, madam, but that cursèd Gaveston. Far be it from the thought of Lancaster To offer violence to his sovereign. We would but rid the realm of Gaveston: Tell us where he remains, and he shall die.
Queen. He's gone by water unto Scarborough; Pursue him quickly, and he cannot scape; The king hath left him, and his train is small.
War. Foreslow [243] no time, sweet Lancaster, let's march.
Y. Mor. How comes it that the king and he is parted?40
Queen. That thus [244] your army, going several ways, Might be of lesser force: and with the power That he intendeth presently to raise, Be easily suppressed; therefore [245] be gone.
Y. Mor. Here in the river rides a Flemish hoy; Let's all aboard, and follow him amain.
Lan. The wind that bears him hence will fill our sails: Come, come aboard, 'tis but an hour's sailing.