One of them lets fall the name of Mortimer:

Mortimer! who talks of Mortimer?

Who wounds me with the name of Mortimer,
That bloody man?-Good father, on thy lap
Lay I this head, laden with mickle care.
O might I never ope these eyes again,
Never again lift up this drooping head,
O, never more lift up this dying heart!

This scene serves as prelude to the abdication scene at Killingworth. The Earl of Leicester and the Bishop of Winchester are in attendance, the one soothing the king's anguish with kind words; the other stubbornly insisting on his resignation of the crown. Edward opens the debate in a speech of harmony so rich and varied, that in this I recognise the master's perfected command of his own mighty line:

Leicester, if gentle words might comfort me,
Thy speeches long ago had eas'd my sorrow,
For kind and loving hast thou always been.
The griefs of private men are soon allay'd;
But not of kings. The forest deer, being struck,
Runs to an herb that closeth up the wounds;
But when the imperial lion's flesh is gor'd,
He rends and tears it with his wrathful paw,
[And], highly scorning that the lowly earth.
Should drink his blood, mounts up to the air;
And so it fares with me, whose dauntless mind
Th' ambitious Mortimer would seek to curb,
And that unnatural queen, false Isabel,
That thus hath pent and mew'd me in a prison;
For such outrageous passions clog my soul,
As with the wings of rancour and disdain
Full oft[en] am I soaring up to heaven,
To plain me to the gods against them both.
But when I call to mind I am a king,
Methinks I should revenge me of my wrongs
That Mortimer and Isabel have done.
But what are kings, when regiment is gone,

EDWARD AT KILLINGWORTH.

But perfect shadows in a sunshine day?
My nobles rule; I bear the name of king;
I wear the crown; but am controlled by them,
By Mortimer, and my unconstant queen,
Who spots my nuptial bed with infamy;
Whilst I am lodg'd within this cave of care,
Where Sorrow at my elbow still attends,

To company my heart with sad laments,

That bleeds within me for this strange exchange.

659

No,' he

The Bishop submits that Edward will resign his
crown to his own son, and not to Mortimer.
replies:

No, 't is for Mortimer, not Edward's head;
For he's a lamb, encompassèd by wolves,
Which in a moment will abridge his life.
But if proud Mortimer do wear this crown,
Heaven turn it to a blaze of quenchless fire!
Or, like the snaky wreath of Tisiphon,
Engirt the temples of his hateful head;

So shall not England's vine be perished,

But Edward's name survive though Edward dies.

Both Leicester and the Bishop urge. Edward vacillates between necessity and shame. At one moment he takes the crown from his head; at the next he replaces it:

Here, take my crown; the life of Edward too :

[Taking off the crown.

Two kings in England cannot reign at once.
But stay a while; let me be king till night,
That I may gaze upon this glittering crown;
So shall my eyes receive their last content,
My head, the latest honour due to it,
And jointly both yield up their wished right.
Continue ever, thou celestial sun;

Let never silent night possess this clime;
Stand still, you watches of the element ;

All times and seasons, rest you at a stay,
That Edward may be still fair England's king!

Yet an answer must be given to the lords, and the inevitable cannot be avoided :

Heavens and earth conspire

To make me miserable. Here, receive my crown.
Receive it? no, these innocent hands of mine
Shall not be guilty of so foul a crime;

He of you all that most desires my blood,
And will be call'd the murderer of a king,
Take it. What, are you mov'd? pity you me?
Then send for unrelenting Mortimer,
And Isabel, whose eyes being turn'd to steel,
Will sooner sparkle fire than shed a tear.

Yet stay; for, rather than I'll look on them,

Here, here! [Gives the crown.] Now, sweet God of heaven,
Make me despise this transitory pomp,

And sit for aye enthronised in heaven !

Come, death, and with thy fingers close my eyes,

Or, if I live, let me forget myself!

The king's last thoughts are for his son:

Let not that Mortimer protect my son ;

More safety is there in a tiger's jaws
Than his embracements. Bear this to the queen,
Wet with my tears, and dried again with sighs;
If with the sight thereof she be not moved,

Return it back, and dip in my blood.
Commend me to my son, and bid him rule
Better than I. Yet how have I transgressed,
Unless it be with too much clemency?

Now all is over with Edward. Dragged from place to place, starved, and taunted, we find him next at Berkeley Castle in a dungeon underneath the moat. The aspect of the monarch, wasted with long watching and fasting in his loathsome prison, suggests too much of that Euripidean squalor which high tragedy repudiates. Yet the kingliness with which he calls to mind his majesty of happier days, and bestows his last jewel on the cutthroat sent to murder him, en

EDWARD AT BERKELEY.

661

nobles the revolting details Marlowe has thought fit to accumulate. Lightborn, the assassin, enters the dungeon with a lamp, and on the threshold recoils disgusted by its venomous stench. The dialogue between him and his victim, famous as it is, must be transcribed at length:

K. Edw. Weep'st thou already? list a while to me,
And then thy heart, were it as Gurney's is,
Or as Matrevis', hewn from the Caucasus,
Yet will it melt ere I have done my tale.
This dungeon where they keep me, is the sink
Wherein the filth of all the castle falls.
Light. O villains!

K. Edw. And there, in mire and puddle, have I stood
This ten days' space; and, lest that I should sleep,

One plays continually upon a drum ;

They give me bread and water, being a king;

So that for want of sleep and sustenance,

My mind's distempered and my body's numbed,
And whether I have limbs or not I know not.
O, would my blood dropped out from every vein,
As doth this water, from my tattered robes!
Tell Isabel the queen I looked not thus,
When for her sake I ran at tilt in France,
And there unhorsed the Duke of Cleremont.

L. O speak no more, my lord; this breaks

Lie on this bed and rest yourself a while.

my

heart.

E. These looks of thine can harbour nought but death :

And let me see the stroke before it comes;

That even then when I shall lose my life,

My soul may be more steadfast on my God.

L. What means your Highness to mistrust me thus?

E. What mean'st thou to dissemble with me thus?

L. These hands were never stained with innocent blood,

Nor shall they now be tainted with a king's.

E. Forgive my thought for having such a thought.

One jewel have I left; receive thou this;

Still fear I, and I know not what's the cause,

But every joint shakes as I give it thee.

The fifth of Marlowe's undoubted tragedies, prodced in his own lifetime, is The Massacre at Paris.' This play was popular under its second title of The Guise, and, like the majority of the poet's dramatic works, was written apparently to provide one great actor with a telling part. As we possess it, the text bears signs not only of hasty composition but also of negligent printing. It is chiefly interesting for its fierce. anti-Papal feeling, inflamed to rabidness by the horrors of S. Bartholomew. Yet, even from this point of view,