King Edward the Third | Page 6

I know it well, my liege, and therefore fly.
COUNTESS. My Lords of Scotland, will ye stay and drink?
KING DAVID. She mocks at us, Douglas; I cannot endure it.
COUNTESS. Say, good my Lord, which is he must have the Lady, And
which her jewels? I am sure, my Lords, Ye will not hence, till you have
shared the spoils.
KING DAVID. She heard the messenger, and heard our talk; And now
that comfort makes her scorn at us.
[Another messenger.]
MESSENGER. Arm, my good Lord! O, we are all surprised!
COUNTESS. After the French ambassador, my liege, And tell him, that
you dare not ride to York; Excuse it that your bonny horse is lame.
KING DAVID. She heard that too; intolerable grief! Woman, farewell!
Although I do not stay...
[Exeunt Scots.]
COUNTESS. Tis not for fear, and yet you run away.-- O happy comfort,
welcome to our house! The confident and boisterous boasting Scot,
That swore before my walls they would not back For all the armed
power of this land, With faceless fear that ever turns his back, Turned
hence against the blasting North-east wind Upon the bare report and

name of Arms.
[Enter Mountague.]
O Summer's day! See where my Cousin comes!
MOUNTAGUE. How fares my Aunt? We are not Scots; Why do you
shut your gates against your friends?
COUNTESS. Well may I give a welcome, Cousin, to thee, For thou
comst well to chase my foes from hence.
MOUNTAGUE. The king himself is come in person hither; Dear Aunt,
descend, and gratulate his highness.
COUNTESS. How may I entertain his Majesty, To shew my duty and
his dignity?
[Exit, from above.]
[Enter King Edward, Warwick, Artois, with others.]
KING EDWARD. What, are the stealing Foxes fled and gone, Before
we could uncouple at their heels?
WARWICK. They are, my liege; but, with a cheerful cry, Hot hounds
and hardy chase them at the heels.
[Enter Countess.]
KING EDWARD. This is the Countess, Warwick, is it not?
WARWICK. Even she, my liege; whose beauty tyrants fear, As a May
blossom with pernicious winds, Hath sullied, withered, overcast, and
done.
KING EDWARD. Hath she been fairer, Warwick, than she is?
WARWICK. My gracious King, fair is she not at all, If that her self
were by to stain her self, As I have scene her when she was her self.
KING EDWARD. What strange enchantment lurked in those her eyes,
When they excelled this excellence they have, That now her dim
decline hath power to draw My subject eyes from persing majesty, To
gaze on her with doting admiration?
COUNTESS. In duty lower than the ground I kneel, And for my dull
knees bow my feeling heart, To witness my obedience to your highness,
With many millions of a subject's thanks For this your Royal presence,
whose approach Hath driven war and danger from my gate.
KING EDWARD. Lady, stand up; I come to bring thee peace, How
ever thereby I have purchased war.
COUNTESS. No war to you, my liege; the Scots are gone, And gallop
home toward Scotland with their hate.

KING EDWARD. Least, yielding here, I pine in shameful love, Come,
we'll pursue the Scots;--Artois, away!
COUNTESS. A little while, my gracious sovereign, stay, And let the
power of a mighty king Honor our roof; my husband in the wars, When
he shall hear it, will triumph for joy; Then, dear my liege, now niggard
not thy state: Being at the wall, enter our homely gate.
KING EDWARD. Pardon me, countess, I will come no near; I dreamed
to night of treason, and I fear.
COUNTESS. Far from this place let ugly treason lie!
KING EDWARD. No farther off, than her conspiring eye, Which
shoots infected poison in my heart, Beyond repulse of wit or cure of
Art. Now, in the Sun alone it doth not lie, With light to take light from
a mortal eye; For here two day stars that mine eyes would see More
than the Sun steals mine own light from me, Contemplative desire,
desire to be In contemplation, that may master thee! Warwick, Artois,
to horse and let's away!
COUNTESS. What might I speak to make my sovereign stay?
KING EDWARD. What needs a tongue to such a speaking eye, That
more persuades than winning Oratory?
COUNTESS. Let not thy presence, like the April sun, Flatter our earth
and suddenly be done. More happy do not make our outward wall Than
thou wilt grace our inner house withal. Our house, my liege, is like a
Country swain, Whose habit rude and manners blunt and plain
Presageth nought, yet inly beautified With bounties, riches and faire
hidden pride. For where the golden Ore doth buried lie, The ground,
undecked with nature's tapestry, Seems barren, sere, unfertile, fructless,
dry; And where