that treasure on the lords of France,
That, therewith all enchanted, like the guard
That suffer'd Jove to pass in showers of gold
To Danae, all aid may be denied
To Isabel the queen, that now in France
Makes friends, to cross the seas with her young son,
And step into his father's regiment.
_Levune._ That's it these barons and the subtle queen
Long levell'd at.
_Bal._ Yea, but, Levune, thou seest,
These barons lay their heads on blocks together:
What they intend, the hangman frustrates clean.
_Levune._ Have you no doubt, my lords, I'll clap so close
Among the lords of France with England's gold,
That Isabel shall make her plaints in vain,
And France shall be obdurate with her tears.
_Y. Spen._ Then make for France amain; Levune, away!
Proclaim King Edward's wars and victories. [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ KENT.

_Kent._ Fair blows the wind for France: blow, gentle gale,
Till Edmund be arriv'd for England's good!
Nature, yield to my country's cause in this!
A brother? no, a butcher of thy friends!
Proud Edward, dost thou banish me thy presence?
But I'll to France, and cheer the wronged queen,
And certify what Edward's looseness is.
Unnatural king, to slaughter nobleman
And cherish flatterers! Mortimer, I stay
Thy sweet escape. Stand gracious, gloomy night,
To his device!

_Enter the younger_ MORTIMER _disguised._

_Y. Mor._ Holla! who walketh there?
Is't you, my lord?
_Kent._ Mortimer, 'tis I.
But hath thy portion wrought so happily?
_Y. Mor._ It hath, my lord: the warders all asleep,
I thank them, gave me leave to pass in peace.
But hath your grace got shipping unto France?
_Kent._ Fear it not. [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ QUEEN ISABELLA _and_ PRINCE EDWARD.

_Q. Isab._ Ah, boy, our friends do fail us all in France!
The lords are cruel, and the king unkind.
What shall we do?
_P. Edw._ Madam, return to England,
And please my father well; and then a fig
For all my uncle's friendship here in France!
I warrant you, I'll win his highness quickly;
'A loves me better than a thousand Spensers.
_Q. Isab._ Ah, boy, thou art deceiv'd, at least in this,
To think that we can yet be tun'd together!
No, no, we jar too far.--Unkind Valois!
Unhappy Isabel, when France rejects,
Whither, O, whither dost thou bend thy steps?