d,
Thanked be heaven's great architect, and you!
Ere farther we proceed, my noble lords,
We here create our well-beloved son,
Of love and care unto his royal person,
Lord Warden of the realm; and, sith the Fates
Have made his father so infortunate,
Deal you, my lords, in this, my loving lords,
As to your wisdoms fittest seems in all.
_Kent._ Madam, without offence if I may ask
How will you deal with Edward in his fall?
_P. Edw._ Tell me, good uncle, what Edward do you mean?
_Kent._ Nephew, your father; I dare not call him king.
_Y. Mor._ My Lord of Kent, what needs these questions?
'Tis not in her controlment nor in ours;
But as the realm and parliament shall please,
So shall your brother be disposed of.--
I like not this relenting mood in Edmund:
Madam, 'tis good to look to him betimes. [_Aside to the Queen._
_Q. Isab._ My lord, the Mayor of Bristow knows our mind.
_Y. Mor._ Yea, madam; and they scape not easily
That fled the field.
_Q. Isab._ Baldock is with the king:
A goodly chancellor, is he not, my lord?
_Sir J._ So are the Spensers, the father and the son.
_Y. Mor._ This Edward is the ruin of the realm.

_Enter_ RICE AP HOWEL _with the elder_ SPENSER _prisoner,
and_ Attendants.

_Rice._ God save Queen Isabel and her princely son!
Madam, the Mayor and citizens of Bristow,
In sign of love and duty to this presence,
Present by me this traitor to the state,
Spenser, the father to that wanton Spenser,
That, like the lawless Catiline of Rome,
Revell'd in England's wealth and treasury.
_Isab._ We thank you all.
_Y. Mor._ Your loving care in this
Deserveth princely favours and rewards.
But where's the king and the other Spenser fled?
_Rice._ Spenser the son, created Earl of Glocester,
Is with that smooth-tongu'd scholar Baldock gone,
And shipp'd but late for Ireland with the king.
_Y. Mor._ Some whirlwind fetch them back, or sink them all!-- [_Aside._
They shall be started thence, I doubt it not.
_P. Edw._ Shall I not see the king my father yet?
_Kent._ Unhappy Edward, chas'd from England's bounds! [_Aside._
_Sir J._ Madam, what resteth? why stand you in a muse?
_Q. Isab._ I rue my lord's ill-fortune: but, alas,
Care of my country call'd me to this war!
_Y. Mor._ Madam, have done with care and sad complaint:
Your king hath wrong'd your country and himself,
And we must seek t