“But what are kings, when regiment is gone,But perfect shadows in a sunshine day?- Edward II, 5.1”

“Edward:Well Mortimer, ile make thee rue these words,Beseemes it thee to contradict thy king?Frownst thou thereat, aspiring Lancaster,The sworde shall plane the furrowes of thy browes,And hew these knees that now are growne so stiffe.I will have Gaveston, and you shall know,What danger tis to stand against your king.Gaveston:Well doone, Ned.”

“That perfect bliss and sole felicity, the sweet fruition of an earthly crown.”

“My father is deceast, come Gaveston,'And share the kingdom with thy deerest friend.'Ah words that make me surfet with delight:What greater blisse can hap to Gaveston,Then live and be the favorit of a king?Sweete prince I come, these these thy amorous lines,Might have enforst me to have swum from France,And like Leander gaspt upon the sande,So thou wouldst smile and take me in thy armes.The sight of London to my exiled eyes,Is as Elizium to a new come soule.Not that I love the citie or the men,But that it harbors him I hold so deare,The king, upon whose bosome let me die,And with the world be still at enmitie:What neede the artick people love star-light,To whom the sunne shines both by day and night.Farewell base stooping to the lordly peeres,My knee shall bowe to none but to the king.As for the multitude that are but sparkes,Rakt up in embers of their povertie,Tanti: Ile fawne first on the winde,That glaunceth at my lips and flieth away: ....”

“I must have wanton Poets, pleasant wits,Musitians, that with touching of a stringMay draw the pliant king which way I please:Musicke and poetrie is his delight,Therefore ile have Italian maskes by night,Sweete speeches, comedies, and pleasing showes,And in the day when he shall walke abroad,Like Sylvian Nimphes my pages shall be clad,My men like Satyres grazing on the lawnes,Shall with their Goate feete daunce an antick hay.Sometime a lovelie boye in Dians shape,With haire that gilds the water as it glides,Crownets of pearle about his naked armes,And in his sportfull hands an Olive tree,To hide those parts which men delight to see,Shall bathe him in a spring, and there hard by,One like Actaeon peeping through the grove,Shall by the angrie goddesse be transformde,And running in the likenes of an Hart,By yelping hounds puld downe, and seeme to die.Such things as these best please his majestie,My lord.”

“What nourishes me, destroys me”

“You must be proud, bold, pleasant, resolute,And now and then stab, when occasion serves.”