Mat. I, my good lord; I would it were undone.
Y. Mor. Matrevis, if thou now [339] growest penitent I'll be thy ghostly father; therefore chuse, Whether thou wilt be secret in this, Or else die by the hand of Mortimer.
Mat. Gurney, my lord, is fled, and will, I fear, Betray us both, therefore let me fly.
Y. Mor. Fly to the savages.
Mat. I humbly thank your honour.10
Y. Mor. As for myself, I stand as Jove's huge tree; And others are but shrubs compared to me. All tremble at my name, and I fear none; Let's see who dare impeach me for his death.
Enter the Queen.
Queen. Ah, Mortimer, the king my son hath news His father's dead, and we have murdered him.
Y. Mor. What if he have? the king is yet a child.
Queen. I, [340] but he tears his hair, and wrings his hands, And vows to be revenged upon us both. Into the council-chamber he is gone,20 To crave the aid and succour of his peers. Aye me! see where he comes, and they with him; Now, Mortimer, begins our tragedy.