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157

Epig. 21. Mortimer, and Queene Isabel ,

A Dialogue.

MORTIMER.
Now, now, securely we may clip
Not fearing Edwards Ire,
Let me suck Nectar from thy lip,
And 'bove the gods aspire.

ISSABEL.
Yet, our embraces are but stol'n
No safety, can I see,
The Commons, are with anger swol'n,
And rage 'gainst thee and me.

MORTIMER.
Let the Plebeians mutter all,
All is our own (my Deare)
Confirmed in Canarvans fall
Which I expect to heare.

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ISSABEL.
Is Gurney gone to do the deed,
Our Loves Foundation
Is layd in blood. Mortimer. Edward must bleed,
This night (my Love) t'is done.

ISSABEL.
I, that when Edward was a King
Enthron'd, by all obeyd,
Durst love thee, now do feare the thing
I shake,—We are betray'd.

MORTIMER.
Betrayd, me thinks thy Noble Soul
Should not be timorous,
Who's he dares Mortimer controule?
Fate must not menace us.

ISSABEL.
I could rejoyce that he were dead,
But that I durst conspire
To macerate his vitall thread
Is horrible and Dire.

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MORTIMER.
In that, in that alone (faire Queen)
Thy Love is manifest,
All had been nought, had this not been
In sanguine Lines expre'st.

ISSABEL.
Then let our Loves obstructer die,
But I Prognosticate,
Many, that his Throne shall supplie,
Shall taste the selfe-same Fate.

MORTIMER.
No matter, I am sure my brow
Shall ne're empaled be,
With Brittains wreath, a Crown I know
Was not ordain'd for mee.

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ISSABEL.
Oh, but unhappie Edwards Sonne,
See'st not how he does lower,
Hee knowes, although a Child, what's done,
He must ere long have power.

MORTIMER.
But I'le anticipate his time,
The Boy shall to his Syre,
That he is Edwards is his Crime,
Ere long he shall expire.

ISSABEL.
But my distress'd Soule doth Divine
Thou by his rage shalt Perish,
I justly in a Prison pine,
That durst such Treason cherish.

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