o right it as we may.--
Meanwhile have hence this rebel to the block.
_E. Spen._ Rebel is he that fights against the prince:
So fought not they that fought in Edward's right.
_Y. Mor._ Take him away; he prates.
[_Exeunt Attendants with the elder Spenser._
You, Rice ap Howel,
Shall do good service to her majesty,
Being of countenance in your country here,
To follow these rebellious runagates.--
We in mean while, madam, must take advice.
How Baldock, Spenser, and their complices,
May in their fall be follow'd to their end. [_Exeunt._

_Enter the_ Abbot, Monks, KING EDWARD, _the younger_
SPENSER, _and_ BALDOCK (_the three latter disguised_).

_Abbot._ Have you no doubt, my lord; have you no fear:
As silent and as careful we will be
To keep your royal person safe with us,
Free from suspect, and fell invasion
Of such as have your majesty in chase,
Yourself, and those your chosen company,
As danger of this stormy time requires.
_K. Edw._ Father, thy face should harbour no deceit.
O, hadst thou ever been a king, thy heart,
Pierc'd deeply with sense of my distress,
Could not but take compassion of my state!
Stately and proud in riches and in train,
Whilom I was, powerful and full of pomp:
But what is he whom rule and empery
Have not in life or death made miserable?--
Come, Spenser,--come, Baldock,--come, sit down by me;
Make trial now of that philosophy
That in our famous nurseries of arts
Thou suck'dst from Plato and from Aristotle.--
Father, this life contemplative is heaven:
O, that I might this life in quiet lead!
But we, alas, are chas'd!--and you, my friends,
Your lives and my dishonour they pursue.--
Yet, gentle monks, for treasure, gold, nor fee,
Do you betray us and our company.
_First Monk._ Your grace may sit secure, if none but we
Do wot of your abode.
_Y. Spen._ Not one alive: but shrewdly I suspect
A gloomy fellow in a mead below;
'A gave a long look after us, my lord;
And all the land, I know, is up in arms,
Arms that pursue our lives with deadly hate.
_Bald._ We were embark'd for Ireland; wretched we,
With awkward winds and with sore tempests driven,
To fall on shore, and here to pine in fear
Of Mortimer and his confederates!
_K. Edw._ Mortimer! who talks of Mortimer?
Who wounds me with the