King Edward the Third
Page: 7

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,