Chapter VII: Part 7

FRONIA. Nature affords not to your sex such strength.

GUENEVERA. Love, anguish, wrath, will soon afford enough.

FRONIA. What rage is this?

GUENEVERA. Such as himself shall rue.

FRONIA. Whom Gods do press enough, will you annoy?

GUENEVERA. Whom Gods do press, they bend; whom man annoys,
He breaks.

FRONIA. Your grief is more than his deserts.
Each fault requires an equal hate: be not severe,
Where crimes be light. As you have felt, so grieve.

GUENEVERA. And seems it light to want him nine year space
Then to be spoil’d of one I hold more dear?
Think all too much, b’it ne’er so just, that feeds
Continual grief: the lasting woe is worst.

FRONIA. Yet let your highness shun these desperate moods:
Cast off this rage and fell-disposed mind.
Put not shame quite to flight: have some regard
Both of your sex and future fame of life.
Use no such cruel thoughts, as far exceed
A manly mind, much more a woman’s heart.

GUENEVERA. Well, shame is not so quite exil’d, but that
I can and will respect your sage advice.
Your counsel I accept: give leave a while,
Till fiery wrath may slake, and rage relent.
[_Exit Fronia._

THE THIRD SCENE.

GUENEVERA, ANGHARAT.

GUENEVERA. The love, that for his rage will not be rul’d,
Must be restrain’d: fame shall receive no foil.
Let Arthur live; whereof to make him sure
Myself will die, and so prevent his harms.
Why stayest thou thus amaz’d, O slothful wrath?
Mischief is meant; despatch it on thyself.

ANGHARAT. Her breast, not yet appeas’d from former rage,
Hath chang’d her wrath which, wanting means to work
Another’s woe (for such is fury’s wont),
Seeks out his own, and raves upon itself.
Assuage (alas) that over fervent ire:
Through too much anger you offend too much.
Thereby the rather you deserve to live
For seeming worthy in yourself to die.

GUENEVERA. Death is decreed; what kind of death, I doubt:
Whether to drown or stifle[255] up this breath,
Or forcing blood to die with dint of knife.
All hope of prosperous hap is gone. My fame,
My faith, my spouse--no good is left unlost!
Myself am left: there’s left both seas and lands,
And sword, and fire and chains, and choice of harms.
O gnawing, easeless grief! who now can heal
My maimed mind? It must be heal’d by death.

ANGHARAT. No mischief must be done while I be by;
Or, if there must, there must be more than one.
If death it be you seek, I seek it too;
Alone you may not die, with me you may.

GUENEVERA. They that will drive th’ unwilling to their death,
Or frustrate death in those that fain would die,
Offend alike. They spoil, that bootless spare.

ANGHARAT. But will my tears and mournings move you nought?

GUENEVERA. Then it is best to die when friends do mourn.

ANGHARAT. Each-where is death! the fates have well ordain’d,
That each man may bereave himself of life,
But none of death: death is so sure a doom,
A thousand ways do guide us to our graves.
Who then can ever come too late to that,
Whence, when he is come, he never can return?
Or what avails to hasten on our ends,
And long for that which destinies have sworn!
Look back in time: too late is to repent,
When furious rage hath once cut off the choice.

GUENEVERA. Death is an end of pain, no pain itself.
Is’t meet a plague for such excessive wrong
Should be so short? Should one stroke answer all?
[_Soliloquizes_] And would’st thou die? well, that contents the
laws:
What, then, for Arthur’s ire? What for thy fame,
Which thou hast stain’d? What for thy stock thou sham’st?
Not death nor life alone can give a full
Revenge: join both in one--die and yet live.
Where pain may not be oft, let it be long.
Seek out some lingering death, whereby thy corpse
May neither touch the dead nor joy the quick.
Die, but no common death: pass nature’s bounds.

ANGHARAT. Set plaints aside: despair yields no relief;
The more you search a wound the more it stings.

GUENEVERA. When guilty minds torment themselves, they heal,
Whiles wounds be cur’d, grief is a salve for grief.

ANGHARAT. Grief is no just esteemer of our deeds.
What so hath yet been done, proceeds from chance.

GUENEVERA. The mind and not the chance doth make th’ unchaste.

ANGHARAT. Then is your fault from fate; you rest excus’d.
None can be deemed faulty for her fate.

GUENEVERA. No fate, but manners fail, when we offend.
Impute mishaps to fates, to manners faults.

ANGHARAT. Love is an error that may blind the best.

GUENEVERA. A mighty error oft hath seem’d a sin.
My death is vowed, and death must needs take place.
But such a death as stands with just remorse:
Death to the world and to her slippery joys:
A full divorce from all this courtly pomp,
Where daily penance, done for each offence,
May render due revenge for every wrong.
Which to accomplish, pray my dearest friends,
That they forthwith, attir’d in saddest guise,
Conduct me to the cloister next hereby,
There to profess, and to renounce the world.

ANGHARAT. Alas! what change were that! from kingly roofs
To cloistered cells--to live and die at once!
To want your stately troops, your friends and kin,
To shun the shows and sights of stately court;
To see in sort alive your country’s death.
Yea, whatsoe’er even death itself withdraws
From any else, that life withdraws from you.
Yet since your highness is so fully bent,
I will obey: the whiles assuage your grief.
[_Exit_.

THE FOURTH SCENE

MORDRED, GUENEVERA, CONAN.

MORDRED. The hour, which erst I always feared most
The certain ruin of my desperate state,
Is happened now! why turn’st thou (mind) thy back?
Why at the first assault dost thou recoil?
Trust to ’t, the angry heavens contrive some spite,
And dreadful doom t’augment thy cursed hap.
Oppose to each revenge thy guilty head,
And shun no pain, nor plague fit for thy fact.
What shouldst thou fear, that see’st not what to hope?[256]
No danger’s left before: all’s at thy back.
He safely stands, that stands beyond his harms.
Thine (death) is all that east and west can see:
For thee we live, our coming is not long:
Spare us but whiles we may prepare our graves.
Though thou wert slow, we hasten of ourselves.
The hour that gave did also take our lives:
No sooner men than mortal were we born.
I see mine end draws on, I feel my plagues.

GUENEVERA. No plague for one ill-born to die as ill.

MORDRED. O Queen! my sweet associate in this plunge
And desperate plight, behold, the time is come,
That either justifies our former faults,
Or shortly sets us free from every fear.

GUENEVERA. My fear is past, and wedlock love hath won.
Retire we thither yet, whence first we ought
Not to have stirr’d. Call back chaste faith again.
The way that leads to good is ne’er too late:
Who so repents is guiltless of his crimes.

MORDRED. What means this course? Is Arthur’s wedlock safe,
Or can he love, that hath just cause to hate?
That nothing else were to be fear’d:
Is most apparent, that he hates at home,
Whate’er he be whose fancy strays abroad.
Think, then, our love is not unknown to him,
Whereof what patience can be safely hop’d?
Nor love nor sovereignty can bear a peer.

GUENEVERA. Why dost thou still stir up my flames delay’d?
His strays and errors must not move my mind:
A law for private men binds not the king.
What, that I ought not to condemn my liege,
Nor can, thus guilty to mine own offence!
Where both have done amiss, both will relent:
He will forgive that needs must be forgiven.

MORDRED. A likely thing, your faults must make you friends;
What sets you both at odds must join you both.
Think well, he casts already for revenge,
And how to plague us both. I know his law;
A judge severe to us, mild to himself.
What then avails you to return too late,
When you have passed too far? You feed vain hopes.

GUENEVERA. The further past, the more this fault is yours.
It served your turn t’ usurp your father’s crown:
His is the crime, whom crime stands most in stead.

MORDRED. They that conspire in faults offend alike:
Crime makes them equal, whom it jointly stains.
If for my sake you then pertook my guilt,
You cannot guiltless seem: the crime was joint.

GUENEVERA. Well should[257] she seem most guiltless unto thee,
Whate’er she be, that’s guilty for thy sake.
The remnant of that sober mind, which thou
Had’st heretofore ne’er vanquish’d, yet resists.
Suppress, for shame, that impious mouth so taught,
And so much skill’d t’ abuse the wedded bed.
Look back to former fates: Troy still had stood,
Had not her prince made light of wedlock’s lore.
The vice that threw down Troy doth threat thy throne.
Take heed: there Mordred stands, whence Paris fell.
[_Exit_.

CONAN. Since that your highness knows for certain truth,
What power your sire prepares to claim his right.
It nearly now concerns you to resolve
In humblest sort to reconcile yourself
Gainst his return.

MORDRED. Will war?

CONAN. That lies in chance.

MORDRED. I have as great a share in chance as he.

CONAN. His ways be blind that maketh chance his guide.

MORDRED. Whose refuge lies in chance, what dares he not?

CONAN. Wars were a crime far worse than all the rest.

MORDRED. The safest passage is from bad to worse.

CONAN. That were to pass too far and put no mean.

MORDRED. He is a fool that puts a mean in crimes.

CONAN. But sword and fire would cause a common wound.

MORDRED. So sword and fire will often sear the sore.

CONAN. Extremest cures must not be used first.

MORDRED. In desperate times the headlong way is best.

CONAN. Y’ have many foes.

MORDRED. No more than faithful friends.

CONAN. Trust t’ it, their faith will faint, where fortune fails.
Where many men pretend a love to one,
Whose power may do what good or harm he will,
’Tis hard to say which be his faithful friends.
Dame Flattery flitteth oft: she loves and hates
With time, a present friend, an absent foe.

MORDRED. But yet I’ll hope the best.[258]

CONAN. Even then you fear
The worst: fears follow hopes, as fumes do flames.
Mischief is sometimes safe, but ne’er secure.
The wrongful sceptre’s held with trembling hand.

MORDRED. Whose rule wants right, his safety’s in his sword;
For sword and sceptre comes to kings at once.

CONAN. The kingliest point is to affect but right.

MORDRED. Weak is the sceptre’s hold that seeks but right.
The care whereof hath danger’d many crowns.
As much as water differeth from the fire,
So much man’s profit jars from what is just.
A free recourse to wrong doth oft secure
The doubtful seat, and plucks down many a foe
The sword must seldom cease: a sovereign’s hand
Is scantly safe, but whiles it smites. Let him
Usurp no crown that likes a guiltless life:
Aspiring power and justice seld agree.
He always fears that shames to offer wrong.

CONAN. What son would use such wrong against his sire?

MORDRED. Come, son, come, sire, I first prefer myself;
And since a wrong must be, then it excels
When ’tis to gain a crown. I hate a peer:
I loathe, I irk, I do detest a head.
B’ it nature, be it reason, be it pride,
I love to rule! my mind, nor with, nor by,
Nor after any claims, but chief and first!

CONAN. But think what fame and grievous bruits would run
Of such disloyal and unjust attempts.

MORDRED. Fame goes not with our ghosts: the senseless soul,
Once gone, neglects what vulgar bruit reports.
She is both light and vain.

CONAN. She noteth, though.

MORDRED. She feareth states.[259]

CONAN. She carpeth, ne’ertheless.

MORDRED. She’s soon suppress’d.

CONAN. As soon she springs again.
Tongues are untam’d and fame is envy’s dog,
That absent barks, and present fawns as fast.
It fearing dares, and yet hath never done,
But dures: though death redeem us all from foes
Besides, yet death redeems us not from tongues.[260]

MORDRED. Ere Arthur land, the sea shall blush with blood,
And all the strands with smoking slaughters reek.
Now (Mars) protect me in my first attempt!
If Mordred scape, this realm shall want no wars.
[_Exeunt._

CHORUS.

1.
See here the drifts of Gorlois, Cornish Duke,
And deep desire to shake his sovereign’s throne.
How foul his fall, how bitter his rebuke,
Whiles wife, and weal, and life, and all be gone!
He now in hell tormented wants that good.
Lo, lo, the end of traitorous bones and blood!

2.
Pendragon broil’d with flames of filthy fires,
By Merlin’s mists enjoy’d Igerna’s bed:
Next spoiled Gorlois, doubling his desires;
Then was himself through force of poison sped.
Who sows in sin, in sin shall reap his pain:
The doom is sworn: death guerdons death again.

3.
Whiles Arthur wars abroad and reaps renown,
Guenevera prefers his son’s desire;
And traitorous Mordred still usurps the crown,
Affording fuel to her quenchless fire,
But death’s too good, and life too sweet for these,
That wanting both should taste of neither’s ease.

4.
In Rome the gaping gulf would not decrease,
Till Curtius corse had closed her yearning jaws:
In Thebes the rot and murrain would not cease,
Till Laius brood had paid for breach of laws:
In Britain wars and discord will not stent,
Till Uther’s line and offspring quite be spent.

_The Argument of the Second Act._

1. In the first scene a Nuntio declareth the success of Arthur’s wars
in France, and Mordred’s foil, that resisted his landing.

2. In the second scene, Mordred enraged at the overthrow voweth a
second battle; notwithstanding Conan’s dissuasion to the contrary.

3. In the third scene, Gawin (brother to Mordred by the mother)
[comes] with an herald from Arthur to imparley of peace, but after
some debate thereof, peace is rejected.

4. In the fourth scene, the King of Ireland and other foreign princes
assure Mordred of their assistance against Arthur.

_The Argument and Manner of the Second Dumb-Show._

Whiles the music sounded, there came out of Mordred’s house a man stately attired, representing a king who, walking once about the stage, then out of the house appointed for Arthur there came three Nymphs apparelled accordingly, the first holding a Cornucopia in her hand, the second a golden branch of olive, the third a sheaf of corn. These orderly, one after another, offered these presents to the king, who scornfully refused: a second after which there came a man bareheaded, with long black shagged hair down to his shoulders, apparelled with an Irish jacket and shirt, having an Irish dagger by his side, and a dart in his hand. Who first with a threatening countenance looking about, and then spying the king, did furiously chase and drive him into Mordred’s house. The king represented Mordred; the three Nymphs with their proffers the treaty of peace, for the which Arthur sent Gawin with an herald unto Mordred, who rejected it: the Irishman signified Revenge and Fury, which Mordred conceived after his foil on the shores, whereunto Mordred headlong yieldeth himself.

THE SECOND ACT AND FIRST SCENE.

NUNTIUS.

NUNTIUS. Lo, here at length the stately type of Troy,
And Britain land the promis’d seat of Brute,
Deck’d with so many spoils of conquered kings!
Hail, native soil, these nine years’ space unseen!
To thee hath long-renowned Rome at last
Held up her hands, bereft of former pomp.
But first, inflam’d with wonted valour’s heat,
Amidst our sorest siege and thickest broils
She stoutly fought, and fiercely waged wars.
Tiberius courage gave, upbraiding oft
The Roman force, their wonted luck, and long
Retained rule by wars throughout the world.
What shame it were since such achieved spoils,
And conquests gain’d both far and wide, to want
Of courage then, when most it should be mov’d!
How Britons erst paid tribute for their peace,
But now rebel and dare them at their doors.
For what was France but theirs? Herewith incens’d,
They fiercely rav’d, and bent their force afresh.
Which Arthur spying, cried with thundering voice;
Fie (Britons) fie! what hath bewitch’d you thus?
So many nations foil’d, must Romans foil?
What sloth is this? Have you forgot to war,
Which ne’er knew hour of peace? turn to your foes,
Where you may bathe in blood and fight your fill.
Let courage work! what can he not that dares?
Thus he, [the] puissant guide in doubtful wars,
Asham’d to shun his foes, inflam’d his friends.
Then yielding to his stately steed the reins,
He furious drives the Roman troops about:
He plies each place, lest fates mought alter ought,
Pursuing hap, and urging each success.
He yields in nought, but instantly persists,
In all attempts, wherein whatso withstands
His wish, he joys to work away by wrack;
And matching death to death, no passage seeks
But what destruction works with blade or blood.
He scorns the yielded way; he fiercely raves
To break and bruise the ranks in thickest throngs,
All headlong bent and prone to present spoil.
The foes enforc’d withstand; but much dismay’d
They senseless fight, while millions lose their lives.
At length Tiberius, pierc’d with point of spear,
Doth bleeding fall, engor’d with deadly wound.
Hereat the rest recoil and headlong fly,
Each man to save himself. The battle quails,
And Britons win unto their most renown.
Then Arthur took Tiberius’ breathless corse,
And sent it to the Senators at Rome,
With charge to say: This is the tribute due
Which Arthur ought: as time hereafter serves;
He’ll pay the like again, the while he rests
Your debtor thus. But O! this sweet success,
Pursu’d with greater harms, turn’d soon to sour.
For lo, when foreign soils and seas were past
With safe return, and that the king should land,
Who but his only son (O outrage rare)
With hugy host withstood him on the shore!
There were prepar’d the foreign aids from far:
There were the borrowed powers of divers kings;
There were our parents, brethren, sons and kin,
Their wrath, their ire; there, Mordred, was thy rage.
Where erst we sought abroad for foes to foil,
Behold, our Fates had sent us foes unsought.
When foreign realms supplanted want supply,
O blessed home, that hath such boon in store!
But let this part of Arthur’s prowess lurk,
Nor let it e’er appear by my report,
What monstrous mischiefs rage in civil wars.
O, rather let due tears and wailings want!
Let all in silence sink what hence ensu’d.
What best deserveth mention here is this:
That Mordred vanquish’d trusted to his flight,
That Arthur eachwhere victor is return’d.
And lo, where Mordred comes with heavy head:
He wields no slender weight that wields a crown.
[_Exit._

THE SECOND SCENE.

MORDRED, CONAN.

MORDRED. And hath he won? Be strands and shores possessed?
Is Mordred foil’d? the realm is yet unwon,
And Mordred lives, reserv’d for Arthur’s death!
Well, ’twas my first conflict: I knew not yet
What wars requir’d: but now my sword is flesh’d,
And taught to gore and bathe in hottest blood.
Then think not, Arthur, that the crown is won!
Thy first success may rue our next assault;
Even at our next encounter (hap when ’twill)
I vow by heaven, by earth, by hell, by all,
That either thou or I, or both shall die!

CONAN. Nought should be rashly vow’d against your sire.

MORDRED. Whose breast is free from rage may soon b’ advised.

CONAN. The best redress from rage is to relent.

MORDRED. ’Tis better for a king to kill his foes.

CONAN. So that the subjects also judge them foes.

MORDRED. The subjects must not judge their king’s decrees.

CONAN. The subjects’ force is great.

MORDRED.[261] Greater the king’s.

CONAN. The more you may, the more you ought to fear.

MORDRED. He is a fool that feareth what he may.

CONAN. Not what you may, but what you ought, is just.

MORDRED. He that amongst so many so unjust
Seeks to be just, seeks peril to himself.

CONAN. A greater peril comes by breach of laws.

MORDRED. The laws do licence as the sovereign lists.

CONAN. Least ought he list, whom laws do licence most.

MORDRED. Imperial power abhors to be restrain’d.

CONAN. As much do meaner grooms[262] to be compell’d.

MORDRED. The fates have heav’d and rais’d my force on high.

CONAN. The gentler should you press those that are low.

MORDRED. I would be fear’d.

CONAN. The cause why subjects hate.

MORDRED. A kingdom’s kept by fear.

CONAN. And lost by hate.
He fears as man[y] himself whom many fear.

MORDRED. The timorous subject dares attempt no change.

CONAN. What dares not desperate dread?

MORDRED.[263] What? torture, threats.

CONAN. O spare! ’twere safer to be lov’d.

MORDRED. As safe to be obey’d.

CONAN. Whiles you command but well.

MORDRED. Where rulers dare command but what is well,
Pow’r is but prayer, commandment but request.

CONAN. If pow’r be join’d with right, men must obey.

MORDRED. My will must go for right.

CONAN. If they assent.

MORDRED. My sword shall force assent.

CONAN. No, gods forbid!

MORDRED. What! shall I stand, whiles Arthur sheds my blood?
And must I yield my neck unto the axe?
Whom fates constrain, let him forego his bliss;
But he that needless yields unto his bane,
When he may shun, doth well deserve to lose
The good he cannot use. Who would sustain
A baser life, that may maintain the best?
We cannot part the crown: a regal throne
Is not for two: the sceptre fits but one.
But whether is the fitter of us two,
That must our swords discern, and shortly shall.

CONAN. How much were you to be renowned more,
If casting off these ruinous attempts,
You would take care how to supply the loss,
Which former wars and foreign broils have wrought;
How to deserve the people’s hearts with peace,
With quiet rest and deep-desired ease
Not to increase the rage that long hath reign’d,
Nor to destroy the realm you seek to rule.
Your father rear’d it up, you pluck it down.
You lose your country, whiles you win it thus:
To make it yours, you strive to make it none.
Where kings impose too much, the commons grudge;[264]
Good-will withdraws; assent becomes but slow.

MORDRED. Must I to gain renown incur my plague,
Or hoping praise sustain an exile’s life?
Must I for country’s ease disease myself,
Or for their love despise my own estate?[265]
No. ’Tis my hap that Britain serves my turn;
That fear of me doth make the subjects crouch;
That what they grudge they do constrained yield.
If their assents be slow, my wrath is swift:
When favour fails to bend, let fury break.
If they be yet to learn, let terror teach,
What kings may do, what subjects ought to bear.
Then is a kingdom at a wished stay,
When whatsoever the sovereign wills or nills,
Men be compell’d as well to praise as bear,
And subjects’ wills enforc’d against their wills.

CONAN. But whoso seeks true praise and just renown,
Would rather seek their praising hearts than tongues.

MORDRED. True praise may happen to the basest groom;
A forced praise to none but to a prince.
I wish that most, that subjects most repine.

CONAN. But yet where wars do threaten your estate,
There needeth friends to fortify your crown.

MORDRED. Each crown is made of that attractive mould,
That of itself it draws a full defence.

CONAN. That is a just and no usurped crown;
And better were an exile’s life, than thus
Disloyally to wrong your sire and liege.
Think not that impious crimes can prosper long:
A time they ’scape, in time they be repaid.

MORDRED. The hugest crimes bring best success to some.

CONAN. Those some be rare.

MORDRED. Why may not I be rare?

CONAN. It was their hap.

MORDRED. It is my hope.

CONAN. But hope may miss, where hap doth hurl.

MORDRED. So hap may hit, where hope doth aim.

CONAN. But hap is last, and rules the stern.

MORDRED. So hope is first, and hoists the sail.

CONAN. Yet fear; the first and last do seld agree.

MORDRED. Nay, dare; the first and last have many means.
But cease at length; your speech molests me much.
My mind is fix’d: give Mordred leave to do
What Conan neither can allow nor like.

CONAN. But lo, an Herald sent from Arthur’s host.
Gods grant his message may portend our good.[266]

THE THIRD SCENE.

HERALD, GAWIN, MORDRED.

HERALD. Your sire, O Prince, considering what distress
The realm sustains by both your mutual wars,
Hath sent your brother Gawin, Alban king,
To treat of truce, and to imparle of peace.

MORDRED. Speak, brother: what commandment sends our sire?
What message do you bring? My life or death?

GAWIN. A message far unmeet, most needful tho’.
The sire commands not where the son rebels:
His love descends too deep to wish your death.

MORDRED. And mine ascends too high to wish his life.

GAWIN. Yet thus he off’reth. Though your faults be great
And most disloyal, to his deep abuse,
Yet yield yourself, he’ll be as prone to grace,
As you to ruth--an uncle, sire, and liege.
And fitter were your due submission done,
Than wrongful wars to reave his right and realm.

MORDRED. It is my fault that he doth want his right:
It is his own to vex the realm with wars.

GAWIN. It is his right that he attempts to seek:
It is your wrong that driveth him thereto.

MORDRED. ’Tis his insatiate mind, that is not so content,
Which hath so many kingdoms more besides.

GAWIN. The more you ought to tremble at his pow’r.

MORDRED. The greater is my conquest, if I win.

GAWIN. The more your foil, if you should hap to lose:
For Arthur’s fame and valour’s such, as you
Should rather imitate, or at the least
Envy, if hope of better fancies fail’d:
For whereas envy reigns, though it repines,
Yet doth it fear a greater than itself.

MORDRED. He that envies the valour of his foe,
Detects a want of valour in himself.
He fondly fights that fights with such a foe,
Where ’twere a shame to lose, no praise to win;
But with a famous foe succeed what will,
To win is great renown, to lose less foil.
His conquests, were they more, dismay me not:
The oft’ner they have been, the more they threat:
No danger can be thought both safe and oft;
And who hath oft’ner waged wars than he?
Escapes secure him not: he owes the price:
Whom chance hath often miss’d, chance hits at length;
Or if that chance have furthered his success,
So may she mine, for chance hath made me king.

GAWIN. As chance hath made you king, so chance may change.
Provide for peace: that’s it the highest peers,
No state except, even conquerors, ought to seek.
Remember Arthur’s strength, his conquests late,
His fiery mind, his high-aspiring heart.
Mark then the odds: he expert, you untried;
He ripe, you green. Yield you, whiles yet you may;
He will not yield: he wins his peace with wars.

MORDRED. If chance may change, his chance was last to win;
The likelier now to lose. His haughty heart
And mind I know: I feel mine own no less.
As for his strength and skill, I leave to hap:
Where many meet, it lies not all in one.
What though he vanquish’d have the Roman troops,
That boots him not: himself is vanquish’d here.
Then weigh your words again: if conquerors ought
To seek for peace, the conquered must perforce.
But he’ll not yield; he’ll purchase peace with wars.
Well, yield that will; I neither will nor can.
Come peace, come wars, choose him; my danger’s his,
His safety mine: our states do stand alike.
If peace be good, as good for him as me;
If wars be good, as good for me as him.

GAWIN. What cursed wars (alas) were those, wherein
Both son and sire should so oppose themselves!
Him whom you now, unhappy man, pursue,
If you should win, yourself would first bewail.
Give him his crown: to keep it peril breeds.

MORDRED. The crown I’ll keep myself, ensue what will.
Death must be once; how soon, I least respect.
He best provides that can beware in time,
Not why nor when, but whence and where he falls.
What fool, to live a year or twain in rest,
Would lose the state and honour of a crown?

GAWIN. Consider then your father’s grief and want,
Whom you bereave of kingdom, realm, and crown,

MORDRED. Trust me, a huge and mighty kingdom ’tis
To bear the want of kingdom, realm, and crown.

GAWIN. A common want, which works each worlding’s woe:
That many have too much, but none enough.
It were his praise could he be so content,
Which makes you guilty of the greater wrong.
Wherefore think on the doubtful state of wars.
Where Mars hath sway, he keeps no certain course:
Sometimes he lets the weaker to prevail,
Sometimes the stronger troops: hope, fear, and rage
With eyeless lot rules all uncertain good,
Most certain harms be his assured haps.
No luck can last; now here, now there it lights:
No state alike, chance blindly snatcheth all,
And fortune maketh guilty whom she lists.

MORDRED. Since therefore fear and hope, and hap in wars,
Be all obscure, till their success be seen,
Your speech doth rather drive me on to try,
And trust them all, mine only refuge now.

GAWIN. And fear you not so strange and uncouth wars?

MORDRED. No, were they wars that grew from out the ground!

GAWIN. Nor yet your sire so huge, yourself so small?

MORDRED. The smallest axe may fell the hugest oak.

GAWIN. Nor that, in felling him, yourself may fall?

MORDRED. He falleth well, that falling fells his foe.

GAWIN. Nor common chance, whereto each man is thrall?

MORDRED. Small manhood were to turn my back to chance.

GAWIN. Nor that, if chance afflict, kings brook it not?

MORDRED. I bear no breast so unprepar’d for harms.
Even that I hold the kingliest point of all,
To brook afflictions well: and by how much
The more his state and tottering empire sags,
To fix so much the faster foot on ground.
No fear but doth forejudge, and many fall
Into their fate, whiles they do fear their fate.
Where courage quails, the fear exceeds the harm:
Yea, worse than war itself is fear of war.[267]

GAWIN. War seemeth sweet to such as have not tried;[268]
But wisdom wills we should forecast the worse.
The end allows the act: that plot is wise,
That knows his means, and least relies on chance.
Eschew the course where error lurks; there grows
But grief where pain is spent, no hope to speed.
Strive not above your strength; for where your force
Is overmatch’d with your attempts, it faints,
And fruitless leaves what bootless it began.

MORDRED. All things are rul’d in constant course: no fate
But is foreset: the first day leads the last.
No wisdom then, but difference in conceit,
Which works in many men as many minds.
You love the mean, and follow virtue’s race:
I like the top, and aim at greater bliss.
You rest content: my mind aspires to more.
In brief, you fear, I hope; you doubt, I dare.
Since, then, the sagest counsels are but strifes,
Where equal wits may wrest each side alike,
Let counsel go: my purpose must proceed.
Each likes his course, mine own doth like me best.
Wherefore, ere Arthur breathe or gather strength,
Assault we him, lest he assault us first.
He either must destroy, or be destroy’d:
The mischief’s in the midst; catch he that can.

GAWIN. But will no reason rule that desperate mind?

MORDRED. A fickle mind that every reason rules!
I rest resolv’d, and to my sire say thus:--
If here he stay but three days to an end,
And not forthwith discharge his band and host,
’Tis Mordred’s oath, assure himself to die.
But if he find his courage so to serve,
As for to stand to his defence with force,
In Cornwall, if he dare, I’ll try it out.

GAWIN. O strange contempt! like as the craggy rock
Resists the streams and flings the waltering waves
Aloof, so he rejects and scorns my words.
[_Exit._[269]

THE FOURTH SCENE.

MORDRED, GILLA, GILLAMOR, CHELDRICHUS,
DUX PICTORUM, CONAN.

MORDRED. Lo, where (as they decreed) my faithful friends
Have kept their time. Be all your powers repair’d?

GILLA. They be, and all with ardent minds: to Mars
They cry for wars, and longing for th’ alarm,
Even now they wish t’ encounter with their foes.

MORDRED. What could be wish’d for more? puissant king,
For your great help and valiant Irish force,
If I obtain the conquest in these wars,
Whereas my father claims a tribute due
Out of your realm; I here renounce it quite:
And if assistance need in doubtful times,
I will not fail to aid you with the like.

GILLA. It doth suffice me to discharge my realm,
Or at the least to wreak me on my foes.
I rather like to live your friend and peer,
Than rest in Arthur’s homage and disgrace.

MORDRED. Right noble duke, through whom the Saxons vow
Their lives with mine, for my defence in wars,
If we prevail and may subdue our foes,
I will, in lieu of your so high desserts,
Give you and yours all British lands that lie
Between the flood of Humber and the Scots:
Besides as much in Kent as Horsa and
Hengistus had, when Vortigern was king.

CHELDRICHUS. Your gracious proffers I accept with thanks;
Not for the gain, but for the good desire
I have henceforth to be your subject here
May thereby take effect; which I esteem
More than the rule I bear in Saxon soil.

MORDRED. Renowned lord, for your right hardy Picts
And chosen warriors to maintain my cause,
If our attempts receive a good success,
The Alban crown I give to you and yours.

DUX PICTORUM. Your highness’ bounty in so high degree,
Were cause enough to move me to my best:
But sure yourself, without regard of meed,
Should find both me and mine at your command.

MORDRED. Lord Gilla, if my hope may take success,
And that I be thereby undoubted king,
The Cornish dukedom I allot to you.

GILLA. My liege, to further your desir’d attempts,
I joyfully shall spend my dearest blood:
The rather that I found the king your sire
So heavy lord to me and all my stock.

MORDRED. Since then our rest is on’t, and we agreed,
To war it out, what resteth now but blows?
Drive dest’nies on with swords, Mars frames the means!
Henceforth what Mordred may, now lies in you.
Ere long, if Mars ensue with good success,
Look, whatso’er it be that Arthur claims
By right or wrong, or conquests gain’d with blood
In Britain or abroad, is mine to give:--
To show, I would have said: I cannot give
What every hand must give unto itself.
Whereof who lists to purchase any share,
Now let him seek and win it with his sword:
The fates have laid it open in the field.
What stars (O heavens) or poles, or powers divine,
Do grant so great rewards for those that win!
Since then our common good, and each man’s care
Requires our joint assistance in these toils,
Shall we not hazard our extremest hap,
And rather spend our fates, than spare our foes?
The cause I care for most is chiefly yours:
This hand and heart shall make mine own secure.
That man shall see me foiled by myself,
Whate’er he be, that sees my foe unfoil’d.
Fear not the field, because of Mordred’s faults,
Nor shrink one jot the more for Arthur’s right.
Full safely fortune guideth many a guilt,
And fates have none but wretches whom they wrench.
Wherefore make speed to cheer your soldiers’ hearts.
That to their fires ye yet may add more flames.
The side that seeks to win in civil wars
Must not content itself with wonted heat.
[_Exeunt omnes præter_ MORDRED _and_ CONAN.

CONAN. Would God your highness had been more advised,
Ere too much will had drawn your wits too far!
Then had no wars endanger’d you nor yours,
Nor Mordred’s cause required foreign care.
[_Exit._

MORDRED. A troubled head: my mind revolts to fear,
And bears my body back. I inwards feel my fall:
My thoughts misgive me much. Down, terror! I
Perceive mine end, and desperate though I must
Despise despair, and somewhat hopeless hope,
The more I doubt the more I dare: by fear
I find the fact is fittest for my frame.
What though I be a ruin to the realm,
And fall myself therewith? no better end:
His last mishaps do make a man secure.
Such was King Priam’s end who, when he died,
Clos’d and wrapp’d up his kingdom in his death.
A solemn pomp, and fit for Mordred’s mind,
To be a grave and tomb to all his realm.
[_Exit_.

CHORUS.

1.
Ye princely peers, extoll’d to seats of state,
Seek not the fair that soon will turn to foul:
Oft is the fall of high and hovering fate,
And rare the room which time doth not control.
The safest seat is not on highest hill,
Where winds and storms and thunders thump their ill:
Far safer were to follow sound advice,
Than for such pride to pay so dear a price.

2.
The mounting mind that climbs the haughty cliffs,
And soaring seeks the tip of lofty type,
Intoxicates the brain with giddy drifts,
Then rolls and reels and falls at length plum-ripe.
Lo, heaving high is of so small forecast,
To totter first, and tumble down at last.
Yet Pegasus still rears himself on high,
And coltishly doth kick the clouds in sky.

3.
Who saw the grief engraven in a crown,
Or knew the bad and bane, whereto it’s bound,
Would never stick to throw and fling it down,
Nor once vouchsafe to heave it from the ground.
Such is the sweet of this ambitious power,
No sooner had, than turns oftsoons to sour,
Achiev’d with envy, exercis’d with hate,
Guarded with fear, supported with debate.

4.
O restless race of high-aspiring head!
O worthless rule both pitied and envied!
How many millions to their loss you lead,
With love and lure of kingdoms’ bliss untried!
So things untasted cause a quenchless thirst,
Which, were they known, would be refused first:
Yea, oft we see, yet seeing cannot shun
The fact we find as fondly dar’d as done.

_The Argument of the Third Act._

1. In the first scene Cador and Howell incite and exhort Arthur unto
war: who, moved with fatherly affection towards his son,
notwithstanding their persuasions, resolveth upon peace.

2. In the second scene an herald is sent from Mordred to command
Arthur to discharge his armies under pain of death, or otherwise,
if he dare, to try it by battle.

3. In the third scene Arthur calleth his assistants and soldiers
together, whom he exhorteth to pursue their foes.

4. In the fourth scene Arthur, between grief and despair, resolveth to
war.

_The Argument and Manner of the Third Dumb-Show._

During the music after the second act, there came upon the stage two gentlemen attired in a peaceable manner, which brought with them a table, carpet and cloth: and then having covered the table they furnish it with incense on the one end and banquetting dishes on the other end. Next there came two gentlemen apparelled like soldiers, with two naked swords in their hands, the which they laid across upon the table. Then there came two sumptuously attired and warlike who, spying this preparation, smelled the incense and tasted the banquet. During the which there came a messenger and delivered certain letters to those that fed on the dainties: who, after they had well viewed and perused the letters, furiously flung the banquet under feet, and violently snatching the swords unto them, they hastily went their way. By the two first that brought in the banquet was meant the servants of peace: by the second two were meant the servants of war: by the two last were meant Arthur and Cador. By the Messenger and his letters was meant the defiance from Mordred.

THE THIRD ACT AND FIRST[270] SCENE.

ARTHUR, CADOR, HOWELL.

ARTHUR. Is this the welcome that my realm prepares?
Be these the thanks I win for all my wars?
Thus to forbid me land? to slay my friends?
To make their blood distain my country shores?
My son (belike), lest that our force should faint
For want of wars, prepar’d us wars himself.
He thought (perhaps) it mought impair our fame,
If none rebell’d, whose foil might praise our power.
Is this the fruit of Mordred’s forward youth
And tender age, discreet beyond his years?
O false and guileful life! O crafty world!
How cunningly convey’st thou fraud unseen!
Th’ ambitious seemeth meek, the wanton chaste;
Disguised vice for virtue vaunts itself.
Thus (Arthur), thus hath fortune play’d her part,
Blind for thy weal, clear-sighted for thy woe.
Thy kingdom’s gone, thy sphere affords no faith:
Thy son rebels: of all thy wonted pomp
No jot is left, and fortune hides her face.
No place is left for prosperous plight: mishaps
Have room and ways to run and walk at will.
Lo (Cador) both our states, your daughter’s trust,
My son’s respect, our hopes repos’d in both!

CADOR. The time, [O] puissant Prince, permits not now
To moan our wrongs, or search each several sore.
Since Arthur thus hath ransack’d all abroad,
What marvel is ’t, if Mordred rave at home?
When far and near your wars had worn the world,
What wars were left for him but civil wars?
All which requires revenge with sword and fire,
And to pursue your foes with present[271] force.
In just attempts Mars gives a rightful doom.

ARTHUR. Nay, rather (Cador) let them run their race,
And leave the heavens revengers of my wrong.
Since Britain’s prosperous state is thus debas’d
In servile sort to Mordred’s cursed pride,
Let me be thrall, and lead a private life:
None can refuse the yoke his country bears.
But as for wars, in sooth, my flesh abhors
To bid the battle to my proper blood.
Great is the love which nature doth inforce
From kin to kin, but most from sire to son.

HOWELL. The noble neck disdains the servile yoke:
Where rule hath pleas’d, subjection seemeth strange.
A king ought always to prefer his realm
Before the love he bears to kin or son.
Your realm destroy’d is ne’er restor’d again,
But time may send you kin and sons enough.

ARTHUR. How hard it is to rule th’ aspiring mind,
And what a kingly point it seems to those,
Whose lordly hands the stately sceptre sways,
Still to pursue the drift they first decreed,
My wonted mind and kingdom lets me know.
Think not but, if you drive this hazard on,
He desperate will resolve to win or die:
Whereof who knows which were the greater guilt,
The sire to slay the son, or son the sire?

CADOR. If bloody Mars do so extremely sway,
That either son or sire must needs be slain,
Give law the choice: let him die that deserves.
Each impotent affection notes a want.
No worse a vice than lenity in kings:
Remiss indulgence soon undoes a realm.
He teacheth how to sin that winks at sins,
And bids offend that suffereth an offence.
The only hope of leave increaseth crimes,
And he that pardoneth one, embold’neth all
To break the laws. Each patience fostereth wrong.
But vice severely punish’d faints at foot,
And creeps no further off than where it falls.
One sour example will prevent more vice
Than all the best persuasions in the world.
Rough rigour looks out right, and still prevails:
Smooth mildness looks too many ways to thrive.
Wherefore, since Mordred’s crimes have wrong’d the laws
In so extreme a sort, as is too strange,
Let right and justice rule with rigour’s aid,
And work his wrack at length, although too late;
That damning laws, so damned by the laws,
He may receive his deep deserved doom.
So let it fare with all that dare the like:
Let sword, let fire, let torments be their end.
Severity upholds both realm and rule.

ARTHUR. Ah too severe! far from a father’s mind.
Compassion is as fit for kings as wrath.
Laws must not low’r; rule oft admitteth ruth.
So hate, as if there were yet cause to love:
Take not their lives as foes which may be friends.
To spoil my son were to despoil myself:
Oft, whiles we seek our foes, we seek our foils.
Let’s rather seek how to allure his mind
With good deserts: deserts may win the worst.

HOWELL. Where Cato first had saved a thief from death,
And after was himself condemn’d to die,
When else not one would execute the doom,
Who but the thief did undertake the task?
If too much bounty work so bad effects
In thankless friends, what for a ruthless foe?
Let laws have still their course: the ill-dispos’d
Grudge at their lives to whom they owe too much.

ARTHUR. But yet where men with reconciled minds
Renew their love with recontinued grace,
Atonement frames them friends of former foes,
And makes the moods of swelling wrath to ’suage.
No faster friendship than that grows from grief,
When melting minds with mutual ruth relent.
How close the severed skin unites again,
When salves have smoothly heal’d the former hurts!

CADOR. I never yet saw heart so smoothly heal’d,
But that the scar bewray’d the former wound:
Yea, where the salve did soonest close the skin,
The sore was oft’ner covered up than cur’d:
Which festering deep and fill’d within, at last
With sudden breach grew greater than at first.
What then for minds which have revenging moods,
And ne’er forget the cross they forced bear?
Whereto if reconcilement come, it makes
The t’one secure, whiles t’other works his will.
Atonement seld defeats, but oft defers
Revenge: beware a reconciled foe.

ARTHUR. Well, what avails to linger in this life,
Which fortune but reserves for greater grief?
This breath draws on but matter of mishap:
Death only frees the guiltless from annoys.
Who so hath felt the force of greedy fates,
And ’dur’d the last decree of grisly death,
Shall never yield his captive arms to chains,
Nor drawn in triumph deck the victor’s pomp.

HOWELL. What mean these words? Is Arthur forc’d to fear?
Is this the fruit of your continual wars,
Even from the first remembrance of your youth?

ARTHUR. My youth (I grant) and prime of budding years,
Puff’d up with pride and fond desire of praise,
Foreweening nought what perils might ensue,
Adventured all and raught to will the reins:[272]
But now this age requires a sager course,
And will, advis’d by harms, to wisdom yields.
Those swelling spirits, the self-same cause which first
Set them on gog, even fortune’s favours quail’d,
And now mine oft’nest scapes do scare me most.
I fear the trap whereat I oft have tripp’d:
Experience tells me plain that chance is frail,
And oft the better past, the worse to come.

CADOR. Resist these doubts: ’tis ill to yield to harms.
’Tis safest then to dare, when most you fear.

ARTHUR. As safe sometimes to fear, when most we dare:
A causeless courage gives repentance place.

HOWELL. If fortune fawn.

ARTHUR. Each way on me she frowns;
For win I, lose I, both procure my grief.

CADOR. Put case you win, what grief?

ARTHUR. Admit I do, what joy?

CADOR. Then may you rule.

ARTHUR. When I may die.

CADOR. To rule is much.

ARTHUR. Small, if we covet nought.

CADOR. Who covets not a crown?

ARTHUR. He that discerns the sword aloft.

CADOR. That hangeth fast.

ARTHUR. But by a hair.

CADOR. Right holds it up.

ARTHUR. Wrong pulls it down.

CADOR. The Commons help the king.

ARTHUR. They sometimes hurt.

CADOR. At least the Peers.

ARTHUR. Seld, if allegiance want.

CADOR. Yet sovereignty.

ARTHUR. Not if subjection[273] fail.

CADOR. Doubt not: the realm is yours.

ARTHUR. ’Twas mine ’till now.

CADOR. And shall be still.

ARTHUR. If Mordred list.

CADOR. ’Twere well your crown were won.

ARTHUR. Perhaps ’tis better lost.

HOWELL. The name of rule should move a princely mind.

ARTHUR. Trust me, bad things have often glorious names.

HOWELL. The greatest food that fortune can afford.

ARTHUR. A dangerous good, that wisdom would eschew.

HOWELL. Yet weigh the hearsay of the old renown.
And fame, the wonderer of the former age,
Which still extols the facts of worthiest wights,
Preferring no deserts before your deeds.
Even she exhorts you to this new attempt,
Which left untried your winnings be but loss.

ARTHUR. Small credit will be given of matters past
To Fame, the flatterer of the former age.
Were all believ’d which antique bruit imports,
Yet wisdom weighs the peril join’d to praise.
Rare is the fame (mark well all ages gone)
Which hath not hurt the house it most enhanc’d.
Besides, fame’s but a blast that sounds awhile,
And quickly stints, and then is quite forgot.
Look, whatsoe’er our virtues have achiev’d,
The chaos vast and greedy time devours.
To-day all Europe rings with Arthur’s praise:
’Twill be as hush’d as if I ne’er had been.
What boots it then to venture life or limb
For that which needs ere long we leave or lose?

CADOR. Can blind affection so much blear the wise,
Or love of graceless son so witch the sire,
That what concerns the honour of a prince,
With country’s good and subject’s just request,
Should lightly be contemned by a king?
When Lucius sent but for his tribute due,
You went with thirteen kings to root him out.
Have Romans, for requiring but their own,
Abode your nine years’ brunts? Shall Mordred ’scape,
That wrong’d you thus in honour, queen, and realm?
Were this no cause to stir a king to wrath,
Yet should your conquests, late achiev’d ’gainst Rome,
Inflame your mind with thirst of full revenge.

ARTHUR. Indeed, continual wars have chaf’d our minds,
And good success hath bred impatient moods.
Rome puffs us up, and makes us too--too fierce.
There, Britons, there we stand, whence Rome did fall.
Thou, Lucius, mak’st me proud, thou heav’st my mind:
But what? shall I esteem a crown ought else
Than as a gorgeous crest of easeless helm,
Or as some brittle mould of glorious pomp,
Or glittering glass which, while it shines, it breaks?
All this a sudden chance may dash, and not
Perhaps with thirteen kings, or in nine years:
All may not find so slow and ling’ring fates.
What that my country cries for due remorse,
And some relief for long-sustained toils?
By seas and lands I daily wrought her wrack,
And spareless spent her life on every foe.
Each where my soldiers perish’d, whilest I won:
Throughout the world my conquest was their spoil.
A fair reward for all their deaths, for all
Their wars abroad, to give them civil wars!
What boots it then, reserv’d from foreign foils,
To die at home? what end of ruthless rage?
At least let age and nature, worn to nought,
Provide at length their graves with wished groans.
Pity their hoary hairs, their feeble fists,
Their withered limbs, their strengths consum’d in camp!
Must they still end their lives amongst the blades?
Rests there no other fate, whilst Arthur reigns?
What deem you me? A fury fed with blood,
Or some Cyclopian, born and bred for brawls?
Think on the mind that Arthur bears to peace:
Can Arthur please you nowhere but in wars?
Be witness, heavens, how far ’tis from my mind
Therewith to spoil or sack my native soil.
I cannot yield; it brooks not in my breast
To seek her ruin whom I erst have rul’d,
What relics now soe’er both civil broils
And foreign wars have left, let those remain:
Th’ are few enough, and Britons fall too fast.

THE SECOND SCENE.

_An_ HERALD _from_ MORDRED.

HOWELL. Lo, here an herald sent from Mordred’s camp:
A froward message, if I read aright.
We mought not stir his wrath; perhaps this may:
Persuasions cannot move a Briton’s mood,
And yet none sooner stung with present wrong. [_Aside._]

HERALD. Hail, peerless prince! whiles fortune would, our king,
Though now bereft of crown and former rule.
Vouchsafe me leave my message to impart,
No jot enforc’d, but as your son affords.
If here you stay but three days to an end,
And not forthwith discharge your bands and host,
’Tis Mordred’s oath: assure yourself to die.
But if you find your courage so to serve,
As for to stand to your defence with force,
In Cornwall (if you dare) he’ll try it out.