Chapter VIII: Part 8

ARTHUR. Is this the choice my son doth send his sire?
And must I die, or try it, if I dare?
To die were ill, thus to be dar’d is worse.
Display my standard forth! let trump and drum
Call soldiers near to hear their sovereign’s hest.

THE THIRD SCENE.

GAWIN _King of Albany_, ASCHILLUS _King of Denmark_,
KING OF NORWAY. _A number of Soldiers._

ARTHUR. O friends, and fellows of my weariest toils,
Which have borne out with me so many brunts,
And desperate storms of wars and brainsick Mars!
Lo now the hundreth month, wherein we win!
Hath all the blood we spent in foreign coasts,
The wounds and deaths, and winters bode abroad,
Deserved thus to be disgraced at home?
All Britain rings of wars: no town nor field
But swarms with armed troops: the mustering trains
Stop up the streets: no less a tumult’s rais’d,
Than when Hengistus fell, and Horsa, fierce
With treacherous truce, did overrun the realm.
Each corner threateneth death: both far and near
Is Arthur vex’d. What, if my force had fail’d
And standard fall’n, and ensigns all been torn,
And Roman troops pursu’d me at the heels,
With luckless wars assay’d in foreign soils?
Now that our fortune heaves us up thus high,
And heavens themselves renew our old renown,
Must we be dar’d? Nay, let that princock come,
That knows not yet himself, nor Arthur’s force;
That ne’er yet waged wars; that’s yet to learn
To give the charge: yea, let that princock come,
With sudden soldiers pamper’d up in peace,
And gowned troops and wantons worn with ease;
With sluggish Saxons’ crew and Irish kerns,
And Scottish aid, and false redshanked Picts,
Whose slaughters yet must teach their former foil.
They shall perceive with sorrow, ere they part,
When all their toils be told, that nothing works
So great a waste and ruin in this age,
As do my wars. O Mordred, blessed son!
No doubt these market-mates, so highly hir’d,
Must be the stay of thy usurped state.
And lest my head, inclining now to years,
Should joy the rest, which yet it never reap’d,
The traitor Gilla, train’d in treacherous jars,
Is chief in arms to reave me of my realm.
What corner (ah), for all my wars, shall shroud
My bloodless age? what seat for due deserts?
What town or field for ancient soldiers’ rest?
What house? what roof? what walls for wearied limbs?
Stretch out again, stretch out your conquering hands!
Still we must use the force so often us’d.
To those that will pursue a wrong with wreak
He giveth all, that once denies the right.
Thou soil, which erst Diana did ordain
The certain seat and bow’r of wand’ring Brute:
Thou realm, which aye I reverence as my saint,
Thou stately Britain, th’ ancient type of Troy,
Bear with my forced wrongs! I am not he,
That willing would impeach thy peace with wars!
Lo, here both far and wide I conqueror stand:
Arthur, each where thine own, thy liege, thy king.
Condemn not mine attempts; he, only he,
Is sole in fault that makes me thus thy foe.
Here I renounce all leagues and treats of truce:
Thou, fortune, henceforth art my guard and guide!
Hence, peace! on wars run fates: let Mars be judge;
I erst did trust to right, but now to rage.
Go, tell the boy that Arthur fears no brags:
In vain he seeks to brave it with his sire.
I come (Mordred), I come, but to thy pain.
Yea, tell the boy his angry father comes
To teach a novice both to die and dare.
[_Herald exit._

HOWELL. If we without offence (O greatest guide
Of British name) may pour our just complaints,
We most mislike that your too mild a mood
Hath thus withheld our hands and swords from strokes.
For what? were we behind in any help?
Or without cause did you misdoubt our force,
Or truth so often tried with good success?
Go to: conduct your army to the field;
Place man to man, oppose us to our foes:
As much we need to work, as wish your weal.

CADOR. Seems it so sour to win by civil wars?
Were it to gore with pike my father’s breast;
Were it to rive and cleave my brother’s head;
Were it to tear peacemeal my dearest child,
I would enforce my grudging hands to help.
I cannot term that place my native soil,
Whereto your trumpets send their warlike sounds.
If case requir’d to batter down the tow’rs
Of any town that Arthur would destroy,
Yea, were ’t of Britain’s self, which most I reed,
Her bulwarks, fortress, rampiers, walls and fence,
These arms should rear the rams to run them down.
Wherefore, ye princes, and the rest, my mates,
If what I have averr’d in all your names,
Be likewise such as stands to your content,
Let all your yeas avow my premise[274] true.

SOLDIERS. Yea, yea, &c.

ASCHILLUS. Wherein, renowmed king, myself or mine,
My life, my kingdom, and all Denmark’s pow’r,
May serve your turn: account them all your own.

KING OF NORWAY. And whatsoe’er my force, or Norway aid,
May help in your attempts, I vow it here.

GAWIN. As heretofore I always serv’d your hest.
So let this day be judge of Gawin’s trust.
Either my brother Mordred dies the death
By mine assault, or I at least by his.

ARTHUR. Since thus (my faithful mates) with vows alike
And equal love to Arthur’s cause you join
In common care to wreak my private wrongs,
Lift up your ensigns efts, stretch out your strengths;
Pursue your fates; perform your hopes to Mars.
Lo, here the last and outmost work for blades!
This is the time that all our valour craves:
This time by due desert restores again
Our goods, our lands, our lives, our weal and all.
This time declares by fates whose cause is best;
This, this condemns the vanquish’d side of guilt.
Wherefore, if for my sake you scorn yourselves,
And spare no sword nor fire in my defence,
Then, whiles my censure justifies your cause,
Fight, fight amain, and clear your blades from crime:
The judge once chang’d, no wars are free from guilt.
The better cause gives us the greater hope
Of prosperous wars; wherein, if once I hap
To spy the wonted signs, that never fail’d
Their guide--your threatening looks, your fiery eyes,
And bustling bodies prest to present spoil,
The field is won! Even then, methinks, I see
The wonted wastes and scattered heads of foes,
The Irish carcass kick’d, and Picts oppress’d,
And Saxons slain to swim in streams of blood.
I quake with hope. I can assure you all,
We never had a greater match in hand.
March on! Delay no fates, whilst fortune fawns;
The greatest praise of war consists in speed.
[_Exeunt Reges et Cohors._

THE FOURTH SCENE.

CADOR, ARTHUR.

CADOR. Since thus (victorious king) your peers allies,
Your lords, and all your powers be ready prest,
For good, for bad, for whatsoe’er shall hap,
To spend both limb and life in your defence,
Cast off all doubts and rest yourself on Mars:
A hopeless fear forbids a happy fate.

ARTHUR. In sooth (good Cador), so our fortune fares,
As needs we must return to wonted force.
To wars we must; but such unhappy wars,
As leave no hope for right or wrong to ’scape.
Myself foresees the fate; it cannot fall
Without our dearest blood: much may the mind
Of pensive sire presage, whose son so sins.
All truth, all trust, all blood, all bands be broke!
The seeds are sown that spring to future spoil.
My son, my nephew, yea, each side myself,
Nearer than all (woe’s me), too near, my foe!
Well, ’tis my plague for life so lewdly led.
The price of guilt is still a heavier guilt;
For were it light, that ev’n by birth myself
Was bad, I made my sister bad: nay, were
That also light, I have begot as bad,
Yea, worse, an heir assign’d to all our sins.
Such was his birth: what base, what vulgar vice,
Could once be look’d for of so noble blood?
The deeper guilt descends, the more it roots:
The younger imps effect the huger crimes.
[_Exeunt._

CHORUS.

1.
When many men assent to civil wars
And yield a suffrage to enforce the fates,
No man bethinks him of his own mishap,
But turns that luck unto another’s share.
Whereas if fear did first forewarn each foil,
Such love to fight would breed no Briton’s bane.
And better were still to preserve our peace,
Than thus to vent for peace through waging wars.
What folly to forego such certain haps,
And in their stead to feed uncertain hopes!
Such hopes as oft have puff’d up many a realm,
Till cross-success hath press’d it down as deep:
Whiles blind affection, fetch’d from private cause,
Misguiding wit hath mask’d in wisdom’s veil,
Pretending what in purpose it abhorr’d.

2.
Peace hath three foes encamped in our breasts;
Ambition, wrath and envy, which subdu’d,
We should not fail to find eternal peace.
’Tis in our pow’r to joy it all at will,
And few there be, but if they will, they may:
But yet even those, who like the name of peace,
Through fond desire repine at peace itself,
Between the hope whereof and it itself
A thousand things may fall, that further wars.
The very speech sometimes and treats of truce
Is slash’d and cut asunder with the sword.
Nor seld the name of peace doth edge our minds,
And sharpeneth on our fury, till we fight;
So that the mention made of love and rest
Is oft a whetstone to our hate and rage.

3.
Lo, here the end that kingly pomp imparts:
The quiet rest that princely palace plights!
Care upon care, and every day anew
Fresh rising tempest tires the tossed minds.
Who strives to stand in pomp of princely port,
On giddy top and culm of slippery court,
Finds oft a heavy fate; whiles too much known
To all, he falls unknown unto himself.[275]
Let whoso else that list affect the name,
But let me seem a potentate to none:
My slender bark shall creep[276] anenst the shore,
And shun the winds that sweep the waltering waves.
Proud fortune overslips[277] the safest roads,
And seeks amidst the surging seas those keels,
Whose lofty tops and tacklings touch the clouds.

4.
O base, yet happy boors! O gifts of gods
Scant yet perceiv’d! when powd’red ermine robes
With secret sighs, mistrusting their extremes,
In baleful breast forecast their foultring[278] fates,
And stir, and strive, and storm, and all in vain;
Behold the peasant poor with tattered coat,
Whose eyes a meaner fortune feeds with sleep,
How safe and sound the careless snudge doth snore.
Low-roofed lurks the house of slender hap,
Costless, not gay without, scant clean within;
Yet safe, and oft’ner shrouds the hoary hairs,
Than haughty turrets, rear’d with curious art,
To harbour heads that wield the golden crest.
With endless cark in glorious courts and towns,
The troubled hopes and trembling fears do dwell.

_The Argument of the Fourth Act._

1. In the first scene Gildas and Conan confer of the state of Britain.

2. In the second scene Nuntius maketh report of the whole battle, with
the death of Mordred, and Arthur’s and Cador’s deadly wound.

3. In the third scene Gildas and Conan lament the unfortunate state of
the country.

_The Argument and Manner of the Fourth Dumb Show._

During the music appointed after the third act, there came in a Lady courtly attired with a counterfeit child in her arms, who walked softly on the stage. From another place there came a king crowned, who likewise walked on another part of the stage. From a third place there came four soldiers all armed who, spying this Lady and King, upon a sudden pursued the Lady, from whom they violently took her child, and flung it against the walls; she, in mournful sort wringing her hands, passed her way. Then in like manner they set on the king, tearing his crown from his head, and casting it in pieces under feet, drave him by force away, and so passed themselves over the stage. By this was meant the fruit of war, which spareth neither man, woman, nor child, with the end of Mordred’s usurped crown.

THE FOURTH ACT AND FIRST SCENE.

GILDAS, CONAN.

GILDAS. Lord Conan, though I know how hard a thing
It is for minds train’d up in princely thrones,
To hear of ought against their humour’s course,
Yet, sithence who forbiddeth not offence,
If well he may, is cause of such offence,
I could have wish’d (and blame me not, my lord)
Your place and countenance both with son and sire
Had more prevail’d on either side, than thus
T’ have left a crown in danger for a crown
Through civil wars, our country’s wonted woe:
Whereby the kingdom’s wound, still fest’ring deep,
Sucks up the mischievous[279] humour to the heart.
The staggering state of Britain’s troubled brains,
Headsick and sore encumbered in her crown,
With giddy steps runs on a headlong race.
Whereto this tempest tends, or where this storm
Will break, who knows? but gods avert the worst!

CONAN. Now surely (Gildas) as my duty stood
Indifferent for the best to son and sire,
So (I protest), since these occasions grew,
That in the depth of my desire to please,
I more esteem’d what honest faith requir’d
In matters meet for their estates and place,
Than how to feed each fond affection, prone
To bad effects, whence their disgrace mought grow.
And as for Mordred’s desperate and disloyal plots,
They had been none, or fewer at the least,
Had I prevail’d, which Arthur knows right well.
But even as counters go sometimes for one,
Sometimes for thousands more, sometimes for none:
So men in greatest countenance with their king
Can work by fit persuasion sometimes much;
But sometimes less, and sometimes nought at all.

GILDAS. Well, we that have not spent our time in wars,
But bent our course at peace and country’s weal,
May rather now expect what strange event
And chance ensues of these so rare attempts,
Than enter to discourse upon their cause,
And err as wide in words, as they in deeds.

CONAN. And lo, to satisfy your wish therein,
Where comes a soldier sweating from the camp.

THE SECOND SCENE.

NUNCIUS.

NUNCIUS. Thou echo shrill, that haunt’st the hollow hills,
Leave off, that wont to snatch the latter word.
Howl on a whole discourse of our distress:
Clip off no clause; sound out a perfect sense.

GILDAS. What fresh mishap (alas), what new annoy
Removes our pensive minds from wonted woes,
And yet requires a new lamenting mood,
Declare! we joy to handle all our harms:
Our many griefs have taught us still to mourn.

NUNCIUS. But (ah) my tongue denies my speech his aid:
Great force doth drive it forth; a greater keeps
It in. I rue, surpris’d with wontless woes.

CONAN. Speak on what grief soe’er our fates afford.

NUNCIUS. Small griefs can speak, the great astonish’d stand.[280]

GILDAS. What greater sin could hap, than what be pass’d?
What mischiefs could be meant, more than were wrought?

NUNCIUS. And think you there’s to be an end to sins?
No; crime proceeds: those made but one degree.
What mischiefs erst were done, term sacred deeds:
Call nothing sin but what hath since ensu’d.
A greater grief requires your tears. Behold
These fresh annoys: your last mishaps be stale.

CONAN. Tell on (my friend): suspend our minds no more.
Hath Arthur lost? hath Mordred won the field?

NUNCIUS. O, nothing less! would, gods, it were but so!
Arthur hath won, but we have lost the field.
The field? Nay, all the realm and Britain’s bounds.

GILDAS. How so? If Arthur won, what could we lose?
You speak in clouds, and cast perplexed words.
Unfold at large, and sort our sorrows out.

NUNCIUS. Then list awhile: this instant shall unwrap
Those acts, those wars, those hard events, that all
The future age shall ever have cause to curse--
Now that the time drew on, when both the camps
Should meet in Cornwall fields, th’ appointed place.
The reckless troops, whom fates forbad to live
Till noon or night, did storm and rave for wars.
They swarm’d about their guides, and clust’ring call’d
For signs to fight; and fierce with uproars fell,
They onwards hal’d the hasting hours of death.
A direful frenzy rose: each man his own
And public fates all heedless headlong flung.
On Mordred’s side were sixty thousand men;
Some borrowed powers, some Britons bred at home.
The Saxons, Irish, Normans, Picts and Scots
Were first in place: the Britons followed last.
On Arthur’s side there were as many more:
Islandians, Goths, Norwegians, Albans, Danes,
Were foreign aids which Arthur brought from France;
A trusty troop and tried at many a trench.
That now the day was come, wherein our state
For aye should fall, whenceforth might men inquire
What Britain was, these wars thus near bewray’d.
Nor could the heavens no longer hide these harms,
But by prodigious signs portend our plagues.
For lo, ere both the camps encountering cop’d,
The skies and poles opposed themselves with storms:
Both east and west with tempests dark were dimm’d,
And showers of hail and rain outrageous pour’d.
The heavens were rent, each side the lightnings flash’d,
And clouds with hideous claps did thundering roar.
The armies, all aghast, did senseless stand,
Mistrusting much both force, and foes, and fates;
’Twas hard to say which of the two appall’d
Them most, the monstrous air or too much fear.
When Arthur spied his soldiers thus amaz’d,
And hope extinct, and deadly dread drawn on:
My mates (quoth he) the gods do scour the skies,
The fates contend to work some strange event,
And fortune seeks by storms in heavens and earth,
What pageants[281] she may play for my behoof:
Of whom she knows she then deserves not well,
When (ling’ring ought) she comes not at the first.
Thus said, rejoicing at his dauntless mind,
They all reviv’d and former fear recoil’d,
By that the light of Titan’s troubled beams
Had piercing scattered down the drooping fogs,
And greeted both the camps with mutual view.
Their choler swells, whiles fell-disposed minds
Bounce in their breasts, and stir uncertain storms.
Then paleness wan and stern, with cheerless change,
Possessing bleak their lips and bloodless cheeks,
With troublous trembling, shows their death is near.
When Mordred saw the danger thus approach’d,
And boist’rous throngs of warriors threat’ning blood,
His instant ruin gave a nod at fates,
And mind, though prone to Mars, yet daunted paus’d.
The heart which promis’d erst a sure success,
Now throbs in doubts, nor can his own attempts
Afford him fear, nor Arthur’s yield him hope.
This passion lasts not long: he soon recalls
His ancient guise, and wonted rage returns.
He loathes delays, and scorch’d with sceptre’s lust,
The time and place, wherein he oft had wish’d
To hazard all upon extremest chance,
He offer’d spies, and spied pursues with speed.
Then both the armies met with equal might,
This stirr’d with wrath, that with desire to rule,
And equal prowess was a spur to both.
The Irish king whirl’d out a poisoned dart,
That lighting pierced deep in Howell’s brains,
A peerless prince and near of Arthur’s blood.
Hereat the air with uproar loud resounds,
Which efts on mountains rough rebounding rears.
The trumpets hoarse their trembling tunes do tear,
And thund’ring drums their dreadful larums ring.
The standards broad are blown and ensigns spread,
And every nation bends his wonted wars.
Some near their foes, some further off do wound,
With dart or sword, or shaft, or pike, or spear;
The weapons hide the heavens; a night compos’d
Of warlike engines overshades the field.
From every side these fatal signs are sent,
And boist’rous bangs with thumping thwacks fall thick.
Had both these camps been of usurping kings,
Had every man thereof a Mordred been,
No fiercelier had they fought for all their crowns.
The murthers meanless wax’d, no art in fight,
Nor way to ward nor try each other’s skill.
But thence the blade, and hence the blood ensues.

CONAN. But what! did Mordred’s eyes endure this sight?

NUNCIUS. They did; and he himself, the spur of fiends
And Gorgons all, lest any part of his
Scap’d free from guilt, enflam’d their minds to wrath,
And with a valour, more than virtue yields,
He cheer’d them all, and at their back with long
Outreached spear stirr’d up each ling’ring hand.
All fury-like, frounc’d up with frantic frets,
He bids them leave and shun the meaner sort,
He shows the kings and Britain’s noblest peers.

GILDAS. He was not now to seek what blood to draw:
He knew what juice refresh’d his fainting crown,
Too much of Arthur’s heart. O, had he wist,
How great a vice such virtue was as then,
In civil wars, in rooting up his realm!
O frantic fury, far from valour’s praise!

NUNCIUS. There fell Aschillus stout, of Denmark king;
There valiant Gawin, Arthur’s nephew dear,
And late by Augel’s death made Alban king,
By Mordred’s hand hath lost both life and crown.
There Gilla wounded Cador, Cornish duke,
In hope to win the dukedom for his meed.
The Norway king, the Saxon’s duke, and Picts,
In woeful sort fell grovelling to the ground.
There prince and peasant both lay hurl’d on heaps:
Mars frown’d on Arthur’s mates: the fates wax’d fierce,
And jointly ran this race with Mordred’s rage.

CONAN. But with what joy (alas) shall he return,
That thus returns the happier for this field?

NUNCIUS. These odds endure not long, for Mars retires,
And fortune, pleas’d with Arthur’s moderate fear,
Returns more full, and friendlier than her wont.
For when he saw the powers of fates oppos’d,
And that the dreadful hour was hastened on,
Perplexed much in mind at length resolves,
That fear is covered best by daring most.
Then forth he pitch’d: the Saxon duke withstood,
Whom with one stroke he headless sent to hell.
Not far from thence he spied the Irish king,
Whose life he took as price of broken truce.
Then Cador forward press’d, and haply met
The traitor Gilla, worker of these wars,
Of whom by death he took his due revenge.
The remnant then of both the camps concur,
They Britons all, or most, few foreigns left:
These wage the wars and hence the deaths ensue:
Nor t’ one nor t’ other side that can destroy
Her foes so fast, as ’tis itself destroyed.
The brethren broach their blood; the sire, the son’s,
The son again would prove by too much wrath,
That he, whom thus he slew, was not his sire.
No blood nor kin can ’suage their ireful moods:
No foreign foe they seek, nor care to find:
The Briton’s blood is sought on every side.
A vain discourse it were to paint at large
The several fates and foils of either side;
To tell what groans and sighs the parting ghosts
Sent forth; who dying bare the fellest breast;
Who changed cheer at any Briton’s fall;
Who oft’nest stroke; who best bestow’d his blade;
Who vent’red most; who stood, who fell, who fail’d.
Th’ effect declares it all: thus far the field.
Of both these hosts, so huge and main at first,
There were not left on either side a score,
For son and sire to win and lose the realm.
The which when Mordred saw, and that his sire
’Gainst foes and fates themselves would win the field,
He sigh’d and ’twixt despair and rage he cried:
Here (Arthur), here, and hence the conquest comes:
Whiles Mordred lives, the crown is yet unwon!
Hereat the prince of prowess, much amaz’d,
With thrilling tears and count’nance cast on ground,
Did groaning fetch a deep and earnful sigh.
Anon, they fierce encountering both concurr’d
With grisly looks and faces like their fates;
But dispar minds and inward moods unlike.
The sire with mind to safeguard both, or t’ one;
The son to spoil the t’ one or hazard both.
No fear nor fellness fail’d on either side:
The wager lay on both their lives and bloods.
At length, when Mordred spied his force to faint,
And felt himself oppress’d with Arthur’s strength,
(O hapless lad, a match unmeet for him)
He loathes to live in that afflicted state,
And, valiant with a forced virtue, longs
To die the death: in which perplexed mind,
With grenning teeth and crabbed looks he cries,
I cannot win, yet will I not be won.
What! should we shun our fates, or play with Mars,
Or thus defraud the wars of both our bloods?
Whereto do we reserve ourselves, or why
Be we not sought ere this amongst the dead?
So many thousands murther’d in our cause,
Must we survive, and neither win nor lose?
The fates, that will not smile on either side
May frown on both. So saying, forth he flings,
And desperate runs on point of Arthur’s sword!
(A sword, alas, prepar’d for no such use),
Whereon engor’d he glides till, near approach’d,
With dying hand he hews his father’s head:
So through his own annoy he ’nnoys his liege,
And gains by death access to daunt his sire.
There Mordred fell, but like a prince he fell;
And as a branch of great Pendragon’s graft
His life breathes out: his eyes forsake the sun,
And fatal clouds infer a lasting ’clipse.
There Arthur staggering scant sustain’d himself;
There Cador found a deep and deadly wound;
There ceas’d the wars, and there was Britain lost!
There lay the chosen youths of Mars, there lay
The peerless knights, Bellona’s bravest train,
There lay the mirrors rare of martial praise,
There lay the hope and branch of Brute suppress’d:
There fortune laid the prime of Britain’s pride,
There laid her pomp, all topsy-turvy turn’d.
[_Exit._

THE THIRD SCENE.

GILDAS, CONAN.

GILDAS. Come, cruel griefs, spare not to stretch our strengths,
Whiles baleful breasts invite our thumping fists.
Let every sign that mournful passions work,
Express what piteous plights our minds amaze.
This day supplants what no day can supply;
These hands have wrought those wastes, that never age,
Nor all the brood of Brute shall e’er repair:
That future men may joy the surer rest,
These wars prevent their birth and nip their spring.
What nations erst the former age subdu’d
With hourly toils to Britain’s yoke, this day
Hath set at large, and backwards turn’d the fates.
Henceforth the Kerns may safely tread their bogs;
The Scots may now their inroads old renew,
The Saxons well may vow their former claims,
And Danes without their danger drive us out.
These wars found not th’ effect of wonted wars,
Nor doth their weight the like impression work:
There several fates annoy’d but several men;
Here all the realm and people find one fate:
What there did reach but to a soldier’s death,
Contains the death of all a nation here.
These blades have given this isle a greater wound
Than time can heal--the fruit of civil wars:
A kingdom’s hand hath gor’d a kingdom’s heart.

CONAN. When fame shall blaze these acts in latter years,
And time to come, so many ages hence,
Shall efts report our toils and British pains;
Or when perhaps our children’s children read
Our woful wars display’d with skilful pen,
They’ll think they hear some sounds of future facts,
And not the ruins old of pomp long past;
’Twill move their minds to rath, and frame afresh
New hopes and fears, and vows, and many a wish,
And Arthur’s cause shall still be favour’d most.
He was the joy and hope, and hap, of all,
The realm’s defence, the sole delay of fates;
He was our wall and fort: twice thirteen years
His shoulders did the Briton state support.
Whiles yet he reign’d, no foreign foes prevail’d,
Nor once could hope to bind the Briton bounds;
But still both far and near were forc’d to fly;
They thrall to us, we to ourselves were free.
But now, and henceforth aye, adieu that hope,
Adieu that pomp, that freedom, rule and all!
Let Saxons now, let Normans, Danes and Scots
Enjoy our meadows, fields, and pleasant plains!
Come, let us fly to mountains, cliffs, and rocks.
A nation hurt, and ne’er in case to heal!
Henceforth, the weight of fates thus fallen aside,
We rest secure from fear of greater foil:
Our leisure serves to think on former times,
And know what erst we were, who now are thus.
[_Exeunt._

CHORUS.

1.
O Britain’s prosperous state, were heavenly powers
But half so willing to preserve thy peace,
As they are prone to plague thee for thy wars!
But thus, O gods, yea, thus it likes you still,
When you decree to turn and touse the world,
To make our errors cause of your decrees.
We fretting fume, and burning wax right wood;
We cry for swords and harmful harness crave;
We rashly rave, whiles from our present rage
You frame a cause of long-foredeemed doom.

2.
When Britain so desired her own decay,
That even her native brood would root her up,
Seem’d it so huge a work, O heavens, for you
To tumble down and quite subvert her state,
Unless so many nations came in aid?
What thirst of spoil, O fates! In civil wars
Were you afraid to faint for want of blood?
But yet, O wretched state in Britons fond,
What needed they to stoop to Mordred’s yoke,
Or fear the man themselves so fearful made?
Had they but link’d like friends in Arthur’s bands,
And join’d their force against the foreign foes,
These wars and civil sins had soon surceas’d,
And Mordred, reft of rule, had fear’d his sire.

3.
Would gods these wars had drawn no other blood,
Than such as sprang from breasts of foreign foes!
So that the fountain, fed with changeless course,
Had found no nearer vents for dearer juice.
Or if the fates so thirst for British blood,
And long so deeply for our last decay,
O, that the rest were spar’d and safe reserv’d,
Both Saxons, Danes, and Normans most of all!
Hereof, when civil wars have worn us out,
Must Britain stand, a borrow’d blood for Brute.

4.
When prosperous haps and long-continuing bliss
Have pass’d the ripeness of their budding growth,
They fall and foulter like the mellow fruit,
Surcharg’d with burden of their own excess:
So fortune, wearied with our often wars,
Is forc’d to faint and leave us to our fates.
If men have minds presaging ought their harms,
If ever heavy heart foreween her woe,
What Briton lives so far remov’d from home,
In any air or pole, or coast abroad,
But that even now, through nature’s sole instinct,
He feels the fatal sword imbrue his breast,
Wherewith his native soil for aye is slain!
What hopes and haps lie wasted in these wars!
Who knows the foils he suffered in these fields?

_The Argument of the Fifth Act._

1. In the first scene Arthur and Cador returned deadly wounded, and
bewailed the misfortunes of themselves and their country, and are
likewise bewailed of the Chorus.

2. In the second scene the ghost of Gorlois returneth rejoicing at his
revenge, and wishing ever after a happier fate unto Britain; which
done, he descendeth where he first rose.

_The Argument and Manner of the Fifth and Last Dumb Show._

Sounding the music, four gentlemen all in black, half-armed, half-unarmed, with black scarfs overthwart their shoulders, should come upon the stage. The first bearing aloft in the one hand, on the truncheon of a spear, an helmet, an arming sword, a gauntlet, &c., representing the trophæa: in the other hand a target, depicted with a man’s heart sore-wounded, and the blood gushing out, crowned with a crown imperial and a laurel garland; thus written in the top: _En totum quod superest_--signifying the King of Norway, which spent himself and all his power for Arthur, and of whom there was left nothing but his heart to enjoy the conquest that ensued. The second bearing, in the one hand, a silver vessel full of gold, pearls, and other jewels, representing the spolia: in the other hand a target, with an elephant and dragon thereon fiercely combating; the dragon under the elephant, and sucking, by his extreme heat, the blood from him, is crushed in pieces with the fall of the elephant, so as both die at last; this written above: _Victor an victus?_ representing the King of Denmark, who fell through Mordred’s wound, having first with his soldiers destroyed the most of Mordred’s army. The third bearing, in the one hand, a Pyramis with a laurel wreath about it, representing Victory; in the other hand a target with this device--a man sleeping, a snake drawing near to sting him, a lizard, preventing the snake by fight: the lizard, being deadly wounded, awaketh the man who, seeing the lizard dying, pursues the snake and kills it; this written above: _Tibi morimur_, signifying Gawin, king of Albany, slain in Arthur’s defence by Mordred, whom Arthur afterwards slew. The fourth bearing, in the one hand, a broken pillar, at the top thereof the crown and sceptre of the vanquished king, both broken asunder, representing the conquest over usurpation; in the other hand a target, with two cocks painted thereon, the one lying dead, the other with his wings broken, his eyes pecked out, and the blood everywhere gushing forth to the ground; he standing upon the dead cock and crowing over him, with this emblem in the top: _Qua vici, perdidi_, signifying Cador deadly wounded by Gilla, whom he slew. After these followed a king languishing, in complete harness black, bruised and battered unto him, besprinkled with blood; on his head a laurel garland, leaning on the shoulders of two heralds in mourning gowns and hoods; the one in Mars his coat of arms, the other in Arthur’s, presenting Arthur victorious, but yet deadly wounded. There followed a page with a target, whereon was portraited a pelican pecking her blood out of her breast to feed her young ones, through which wound she dieth; this written in the top: _Qua fovi, perii_, signifying Arthur’s too much indulgence of Mordred, the cause of his death. All this represented the dismayed and unfortunate victory of Arthur, which is the matter of the Act ensuing.

THE FIFTH ACT AND FIRST SCENE.

ARTHUR, CADOR, CHORUS.

ARTHUR. Come, Cador, as our friendship was most firm
Throughout our age, so now let’s link as fast.
Thus did we live in wars, thus let us die
In peace, and arm in arm partake our fates.
Our wounds, our grief, our wish, our hap alike,
Our end so near: all crave each other’s help.

CADOR. O king, behold the fruit of all our fame!
Lo, here our pomp, consumed with ourselves:
What all our age with all our wars had won,
Lo, here one day hath lost it all at once!
Well, so it likes the heavens: thus fortune gibes;
She hoisteth up to hurl the deeper down.

FIRST CHORUS. O sacred prince! what sight is this we see?
Why have the fates reserved us to these woes?
Our only hope, the stay of all our realm,
The pillar of our state, thus sore oppress’d!
O, would the gods had favour’d us so much,
That as we lived partakers of your pains,
And likewise joy’d the fruit of your exploits,
So having thus bereft our sovereign’s bliss,
They had with more indifferent doom conjoin’d
The subjects’ both and sovereign’s bane in one!
It now (alas) engendereth double grief,
To rue your want and to bewail our woes.

ARTHUR. Rue not, my Britons, what my rage hath wrought,
But blame your king, that thus hath rent your realm.
My meanless moods have made the fates thus fell,
And too much anger wrought in me too much:
For had impatient ire endured abuse,
And yielded where resistance threat’ned spoil,
I mought have lived in foreign coasts unfoil’d,
And six score thousand men had been unmoan’d!
But wrong, incensing wrath to take revenge,
Preferred chance before a better choice.

SECOND CHORUS. ’Twas Mordred’s wrong and too unjust deserts
That justly mov’d your highness to such wrath:
Your claim requir’d no less than those attempts:
Your cause right good was prais’d and pray’d for most.

ARTHUR. I claim’d my crown; the cause of claim was good,
The means to claim it in such sort was bad.
Yea, rather than my realm and native soil
Should wounded fall, thus bruised with these wars,
I should have left both realm and right, and all,
Or dur’d the death ordain’d by Mordred’s oath.

CADOR. And yet, so far as Mars could bide a mean,
You hateless sought the safeguard of them all:
Whereto the better cause or badder chance
Did draw, you still inclin’d; preferring oft
The weaker side, sometimes for love, sometimes
For right (as fortune sway’d), your son, yourself.
So pity spar’d what reason sought to spoil,
Till all at length with equal spoil was spent.

THIRD CHORUS. Would gods your mind had felt no such remorse,
And that your foes had no such favour found!
So might your friends have had far friendlier fates,
If rebels for their due deserts had died.
The wicked’s death is safety to the just;
To spare the traitors was to spoil the true:
Of force he hurts the good that helps the bad.
In that you sought your country’s gain, ’twas well:
In that you shunned not her loss, ’twas hard.
Good is the friend that seeks to do us good;
A mighty friend that doth prevent our harms.

ARTHUR. Well, so it was; it cannot be redress’d;
The greater is my grief that sees it so.
My life (I feel) doth fade, and sorrows flow,
The rather that my name is thus extinct;
In this respect, so Mordred did succeed,
O that myself had fall’n and Mordred liv’d!
That having conquer’d all my foes but him,
I mought have left you him, that conquer’d me.
O heavy, wretched lot! to be the last
That falls! to view the burial of my realm!
Where each man else hath felt his several fate,
I only pine, oppress’d with all their fates!

FOURTH CHORUS. Although your highness do sustain such grief,
As needs enforceth all your realm to rue,
Yet since such ruth affordeth no relief,
Let due discretion ’suage each cureless sore,
And bear the harms that run without redress.
The loss is ours, that lose so rare a prince:
You only win, that see your foe here foil’d.
[_The breathless body of_ MORDRED _in armour,
as he fell, is brought upon the stage._

ARTHUR. A causeless foe. When wars did call me hence,
He was in years but young, in wit too old.
As virtue shineth most in comeliest wights,
When inward gifts are deck’d with outward grace,
So did his wit and feature feed that hope,
Which falsely train’d me to this woful hap.
His mind transformed thus, I cannot choose
But long to see what change his face sustains.
My blood and kindred, doubled in his birth,
Inspires a mix’d and twice-descending love,
Which drives my dying veins to wish his view.
Unhelm his luckless head, set bare his face,
That face which erst pleas’d me and mine too much.

FIRST CHORUS. See (worthiest king) the hope of all your realm,
Had not his lust to rule prevented all.

ARTHUR. I see (alas), I see (hide, hide again:
O, spare mine eyes!) a witness of my crimes;
A fearful vision of my former guilt;
A dreadful horror of a future doom,
A present gall of mind. O happy they,
Whose spotless lives attain a dreadless death!
And thou, O hapless boy! O spite of fates!
(What mought I term thee--nephew, son, or both?)
Alas! how happy should we both have been,
If no ambitious thought had vex’d thy head,
Nor thou thus striv’d to reave thy father’s rule,
But stay’d thy time, and not forestall’d us both!

CADOR. The hot-spurr’d youth, that forc’d the forward steeds,
Whiles needs he would his father’s chariot guide,
Neglecting what his sire had said in charge:
The fires which first he flung about the poles,
Himself at last, most woful wretch, inflam’d.
So too much love to hover in the heavens
Made him to pay the price of rash attempts.

ARTHUR. What ruth (ah), rent the woful father’s heart,
That saw himself thus made a sonless sire!
Well, since both heavens and hell conspir’d in one
To make our ends a mirror to the world,
Both of incestuous life and wicked birth,
Would gods the fates, that link’d our faults alike,
Had also fram’d our minds of friendlier moulds!
That as our lineage had approach’d too near,
So our affections had not swerv’d too far.
Then mought, I[’ve] liv’d t’ enlarge the Britons’ praise
In rearing efts the first triumphant Troy,
And after thou, succeeding mine attempts,
Have spent thy courage in a juster cause.
But ’twould not be: ambition grew too great;
We could not join our minds--our fates we join’d,
And through thy blood a way was made to mine.

SECOND CHORUS. And must we needs (O worthiest peers) forego
By this untimely fate our greatest hope?
That in your ripest years and likeliest time
Your chiefest force should on this sudden fall?

[THIRD CHORUS.] See, see our idle hopes, our brittle trust,

[FOURTH CHORUS.] Our vain desires, our over-fickle state
Which, though a while they sail on quiet seas,
Yet sink in surge, ere they arrive to road.
O woful wars! O Mordred’s cursed pride,
That thus hath wrought both king and kingdom’s woe!

CADOR. Let plaints and mournings pass; set moans apart.
They made much of themselves, yea, too--too much;
They lov’d to live that, seeing all their realm
Thus topsy-turvy turn, would grudge to die.

ARTHUR. Yea, sure: since thus (O fates) your censure seems,
That free from force of foreign foes, there rests
That Mordred reap the glory of our deaths,
B’ it so: drive on your doom, work your decree:
We fearless bide what bane soe’er you bid.
And though our ends, thus hastened to your hests,
Abruptly break the course of great attempts,
Yet go we not inglorious to the ground:
Set wish apart, we have perform’d enough.
The Irish king and nation wild we tam’d;
The Scots and Picts, and Orcade Isles, we wan;
The Danes and Goths, and Friesland men, with all
The Isles inserted near those seas; and next
The German king and Saxons we subdu’d.
Not France that could prevail against our force,
Nor lastly Rome, that rues her pride suppress’d.
Each foreign power is parcel of our praise:
No titles want to make our foes afraid.
This only now I crave (O fortune! erst
My faithful friend): let it be soon forgot,
Nor long in mind nor mouth, where Arthur fell:
Yea, though I conqueror die, and full of fame,
Yet let my death and parture rest obscure.
No grave I need (O fates!) nor burial-rights,
Nor stately hearse, nor tomb with haughty top;
But let my carcase lurk; yea, let my death
Be aye unknowen, so that in every coast
I still be fear’d, and look’d for every hour.
[_Exeunt_ ARTHUR _and_ CADOR.

CHORUS.

1.
Lo, here the end that fortune sends at last
To him, whom first she heav’d to highest hap!
The flattering look, wherewith he long was led;
The smiling fates, that oft had fed his fame,
The many wars and conquests which he gain’d,
Are dash’d at once: one day infers that foil,
Whereof so many years of yore were free.

2.
O willing world to magnify man’s state!
O most unwilling to maintain the same!
Of all misfortunes and unhappy fates
Th’ unhappiest seems to have been happy once.[282]
’Twas Arthur sole, that never found his joys
Disturb’d with woe, nor woes reliev’d with joy.
In prosperous state all heavenly pow’rs aspir’d;
Now, made a wretch, not one that spares his spoil!

3.
Yea, fortune’s self in this afflicted case
Exacts a pain for long-continued pomp.
She urgeth now the bliss of wonted weal,
And bears him down with weight of former fame.
His praises past be present shame. O fickle trust,
Whiles fortune chops and changeth every chance,
What certain bliss can we enjoy alive,
Unless, whiles yet our bliss endures, we die?

4.
Yea, since before his last and utmost gasp,
None can be deem’d a happy man or bless’d,
Who dares commit himself to prosperous fates,
Whose death prepar’d attends not hard at hand:
That sithence death must once determine all,
His life may sooner fly, than fortune flit.

THE SECOND SCENE.

GORLOIS.

GORLOIS. Now, Gorlois, ’suage thyself. Pride hath his pay,
Murther his price, adult’ry his desert,
Treason his meed, disloyalty his doom,
Wrong hath his wreak, and guilt his guerdon bears!
Not one abuse erst offered by thy foes,
But, since most sternly punish’d, is now purg’d.
Where thou didst fall, ev’n on the self-same soil,
Pendragon, Arthur, Mordred, and their stock
Found all their foils: not one hath ’scaped revenge;
Their line from first to last quite razed out!
Now rest content, and work no further plagues:
Let future age be free from Gorlois’ ghost:
Let Britain henceforth bathe in endless weal.
Let Virgo come from heaven, the glorious star,
The Zodiac’s joy, the planets’ chief delight,
The hope of all the year, the ease of skies,
The air’s relief, the comfort of the earth!
That virtuous Virgo, born for Britain’s bliss;
That peerless branch of Brute; that sweet remain
Of Priam’s state; that hope of springing Troy,
Which, time to come and many ages hence,
Shall of all wars compound eternal peace.
Let her reduce the golden age again,
Religion, ease, and wealth of former world.
Yea, let that Virgo come, and Saturn’s reign,[283]
And years, oft ten times told, expir’d in peace.
A rule that else no realm shall ever find,
A rule most rare, unheard, unseen, unread;
The sole example that the world affords.
That (Britain), that renowm, yea, that is thine.
B’ it so: my wrath is wrought. Ye furies black
And ugly shapes, that howl in holes beneath:
Thou Orcus dark, and deep Avernus nook,
With duskish dens out-gnawn in gulfs below,
Receive your ghastly charge, Duke Gorlois’ ghost!
Make room! I gladly, thus reveng’d, return!
And though your pain surpass, I greet them tho!
He hates each other heaven, that haunteth hell.
[_Descendit._

EPILOGUS.

See here by this the tickle trust of time:
The false affiance of each mortal force;
The wavering weight of fates: the fickle trace,
That fortune trips; the many mocks of life;
The cheerless change, the easeless brunts and broils,
That man abides, the restless race he runs.
But most of all, see here the peerless pains:
The lasting pangs, the stintless griefs, the tears:
The sighs, the groans, the fears, the hopes, the hates:
The thoughts and cares, that kingly pomp imparts.
What follies, then, bewitch th’ ambitious minds,
That thirst for sceptre’s pomp, the well of woes!
Whereof (alas!) should wretched man be proud,
Whose first conception is but sin, whose birth
But pain, whose life but toil, and needs must die?
See here the store of great Pendragon’s brood,
The t’one quite dead, the t’other hastening on;
As men, the son but green, the sire but ripe,
Yet both forestall’d, ere half their race were run!
As kings, the mightiest monarchs of this age,
Yet both suppressed and vanquished by themselves.
Such is the brittle breath of mortal man,
Whiles human nature works her daily wracks:
Such be the crazed crests of glorious crowns,
Whiles worldly powers like sudden puffs do pass.
And yet for one that goes, another comes;
Some born, some dead: so still the store endures.
So that both fates and common care provide,
That men must needs be born, and some must rule.
Wherefore, ye peers and lordings, lift aloft,
And whosoe’er in thrones that judge your thralls,
Let not your sovereignty heave you too high,
Nor their subjection press them down too low.
It is not pride that can augment your power,
Nor lowly looks that long can keep them safe.
The fates have found a way whereby, ere long,
The proud must leave their hope, the meek their fear.
Whoe’er received such favour from above,
That could assure one day unto himself?
Him whom the morning found both stout and strong,
The evening left all grovelling on the ground.
This breath and heat, wherewith man’s life is fed,
Is but a flash or flame, that shines a while,
And once extinct is, as it ne’er had been.
Corruption hourly frets the body’s frame;
Youth tends to age, and age to death by kind.
Short is the race, prefixed is the end;
Swift is the time, wherein man’s life doth run:
But by his deeds t’extend renowm and fame,
That only virtue works, which never fades.

FINIS.

Thomas Hughes.

_Sat citò, si sat benè: utcunque,
Quoad non dat spes, dat optio._

Hereafter follow such
speeches as were penned by others, and pronounced
instead of some of the former speeches
penned by Thomas Hughes.

A speech penned by William
Fulbecke, gentleman, one of the society of Gray’s
Inn, and pronounced instead of Gorlois
his first speech penned by Thomas
Hughes, and set down in the first Scene
of the first Act.

Alecto, thou that hast excluded me
From fields Elysian, where the guiltless souls
Avoid the scourge of Rhadamanthus ire,
Let it be lawful (sith I am removed
From blessed islands to this cursed shore,
This loathed earth, where Arthur’s table stands,
With ordure foul of Harpies’ fierce distained)
The fates and hidden secrets to disclose
Of black Cocytus and of Acheron,
The floods of death, the lakes of burning souls,
Where hellish frogs do prophesy revenge;
Where Tartar sprites with careful heed attend
The dismal summons of Alecto’s mouth.
Myself by precept of Proserpina
Commanded was in presence to appear
Before the synod of the damned sprites.
In fearful mood I did perform their hest,
And, at my entrance in, th’ enchanted snakes,
Which wrap themselves about the furies’ necks,
Did hiss for joy: and from the dreadful bench[284]
The supreme fury thus assign’d her charge.
Gorlois, quoth she, thou thither must ascend,
Whence, through the rancour of malicious foes,
Wearied with wounds thou didst descend to us.
Make Britain now the mark of thy revenge:
On ruthless Britons and Pendragon’s race
Disburse the treasure of thy hellish plagues.
Let blood contend with blood, father with son,
Subject with prince, and let confusion reign.
She therewithal enjoin’d the dusky clouds,
Which with their darkness turn’d the earth to hell,
Convert to blood, and pour down streams of blood.
Cornwall shall groan, and Arthur’s soul shall sigh:
Before the conscience of Guenevera
The map of hell shall hang, and fiends shall rage;
And Gorlois’ ghost exacting punishment
With dreams, with horrors, and with deadly trance,
Shall gripe their hearts: the vision of his corse
Shall be to them, as was the terror vile
Of flaming whips to Agamemnon’s son.
And when the trumpet calls them from their rest,
Aurora shall with wat’ry cheeks behold
Their slaughtered bodies prostrate to her beams:
And on the banks of Camela shall lie
The bones of Arthur and of Arthur’s knights,
Whose fleet is now triumphing on the seas,
But shall be welcom’d with a tragedy.
Thy native soil shall be thy fatal gulf,
Arthur: thy place of birth thy place of death.
Mordred shall be the hammer of my hate
To beat the bones of Cornish lords to dust.
Ye ravening birds under Celœno’s power,
I do adjure you, in Alecto’s name,
Follow the sword of Mordred where he goes;
Follow the sword of Mordred for your food.
Aspiring Mordred, thou must also die,
And on the altar of Proserpina
Thy vital blood unto my ghost shall fume.
Heaven, earth, and hell concur to plague the man,
That is the plague of heaven, earth, and hell!
Thou bidd’st, Alecto: I pursue my charge.
Let thy Cerastæ whistle in mine ears,
And let the bells of Pluto ring revenge!

One other speech penned
by the same gentleman, and pronounced instead
of Gorlois his last speech penned by Thomas
Hughes, and set down in the second
Scene of the fifth and last Act.