Lo, here the end that kingly pomp imparts:The quiet rest that princely palace plights!Care upon care, and every day anewFresh 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 knownTo 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.
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 godsScant yet perceiv’d! when powd’red ermine robesWith 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.
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 thingIt 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 sireHad more prevail’d on either side, than thusT’ have left a crown in danger for a crownThrough 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 stormWill break, who knows? but gods avert the worst!Conan.Now surely (Gildas) as my duty stoodIndifferent 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’dIn matters meet for their estates and place,Than how to feed each fond affection, proneTo 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 kingCan 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 eventAnd 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.
Gildas.Lord Conan, though I know how hard a thingIt 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 sireHad more prevail’d on either side, than thusT’ have left a crown in danger for a crownThrough 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 stormWill break, who knows? but gods avert the worst!
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 stoodIndifferent 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’dIn matters meet for their estates and place,Than how to feed each fond affection, proneTo 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 kingCan work by fit persuasion sometimes much;But sometimes less, and sometimes nought at all.
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 eventAnd chance ensues of these so rare attempts,Than enter to discourse upon their cause,And err as wide in words, as they in deeds.
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.
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 annoyRemovesour 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 keepsIt 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. BeholdThese 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 unwrapThose acts, those wars, those hard events, that allThe future age shall ever have cause to curse—Now that the time drew on, when both the campsShould meet in Cornwall fields, th’ appointed place.The reckless troops, whom fates forbad to liveTill noon or night, did storm and rave for wars.They swarm’d about their guides, and clust’ring call’dFor signs to fight; and fierce with uproars fell,They onwards hal’d the hasting hours of death.A direful frenzy rose: each man his ownAnd 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 ScotsWere 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 stateFor aye should fall, whenceforth might men inquireWhat 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’dThem 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 beamsHad piercing scattered down the drooping fogs,And greeted both the camps with mutual view.Their choler swells, whiles fell-disposed mindsBounce 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 attemptsAfford him fear, nor Arthur’s yield him hope.This passion lasts not long: he soon recallsHis 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’dTo 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’dOf 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 fiendsAnd Gorgons all, lest any part of hisScap’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 longOutreached 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 metThe 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 destroyHer 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 largeThe several fates and foils of either side;To tell what groans and sighs the parting ghostsSent 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’dWith 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, longsTo 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 whyBe 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 sideMay 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 graftHis 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 layThe 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.
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.
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 annoyRemovesour 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.
Gildas.What fresh mishap (alas), what new annoy
Removesour 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 keepsIt in. I rue, surpris’d with wontless woes.
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.
Conan.Speak on what grief soe’er our fates afford.
Nuncius.Small griefs can speak, the great astonish’d stand.[280]
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?
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. BeholdThese fresh annoys: your last mishaps be stale.
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?
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.
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.
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 unwrapThose acts, those wars, those hard events, that allThe future age shall ever have cause to curse—Now that the time drew on, when both the campsShould meet in Cornwall fields, th’ appointed place.The reckless troops, whom fates forbad to liveTill noon or night, did storm and rave for wars.They swarm’d about their guides, and clust’ring call’dFor signs to fight; and fierce with uproars fell,They onwards hal’d the hasting hours of death.A direful frenzy rose: each man his ownAnd 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 ScotsWere 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 stateFor aye should fall, whenceforth might men inquireWhat 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’dThem 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 beamsHad piercing scattered down the drooping fogs,And greeted both the camps with mutual view.Their choler swells, whiles fell-disposed mindsBounce 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 attemptsAfford him fear, nor Arthur’s yield him hope.This passion lasts not long: he soon recallsHis 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’dTo 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’dOf 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.
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?
Conan.But what! did Mordred’s eyes endure this sight?
Nuncius.They did; and he himself, the spur of fiendsAnd Gorgons all, lest any part of hisScap’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 longOutreached 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.
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!
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.
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?
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 metThe 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 destroyHer 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 largeThe several fates and foils of either side;To tell what groans and sighs the parting ghostsSent 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’dWith 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, longsTo 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 whyBe 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 sideMay 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 graftHis 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 layThe 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.
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’dWith hourly toils to Britain’s yoke, this dayHath 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 woundThan 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 readOur 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 afreshNew 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 yearsHis 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 ScotsEnjoy 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.
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’dWith hourly toils to Britain’s yoke, this dayHath 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 woundThan time can heal—the fruit of civil wars:A kingdom’s hand hath gor’d a kingdom’s heart.
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 readOur 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 afreshNew 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 yearsHis 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 ScotsEnjoy 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.
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 powersBut 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 rageYou frame a cause of long-foredeemed doom.
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 youTo tumble down and quite subvert her state,Unless so many nations came in aid?What thirst of spoil, O fates! In civil warsWere 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.
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.
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 blissHave 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?
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 hissoldiers 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 firmThroughout our age, so now let’s link as fast.Thus did we live in wars, thus let us dieIn 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’dThe 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 desertsThat 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 soilShould 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 chanceDid draw, you still inclin’d; preferring oftThe weaker side, sometimes for love, sometimesFor 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 lastThat 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 ofMordredin 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 chooseBut 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 heavensMade 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 oneTo 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’ praiseIn 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) foregoBy this untimely fate our greatest hope?That in your ripest years and likeliest timeYour 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 stateWhich, 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 realmThus 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 restsThat 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 allThe Isles inserted near those seas; and nextThe 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! erstMy 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 deathBe aye unknowen, so that in every coastI still be fear’d, and look’d for every hour.[ExeuntArthurandCador.
Arthur.Come, Cador, as our friendship was most firmThroughout our age, so now let’s link as fast.Thus did we live in wars, thus let us dieIn 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.
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.
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’dThe subjects’ both and sovereign’s bane in one!It now (alas) engendereth double grief,To rue your want and to bewail our woes.
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.
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 desertsThat 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.
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 soilShould 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.
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 chanceDid draw, you still inclin’d; preferring oftThe weaker side, sometimes for love, sometimesFor 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.
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.
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 lastThat 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!
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 ofMordredin armour, as he fell, is brought upon the stage.
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 ofMordredin 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 chooseBut 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.
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.
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!
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 heavensMade him to pay the price of rash attempts.
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 oneTo 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’ praiseIn 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.
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) foregoBy this untimely fate our greatest hope?That in your ripest years and likeliest timeYour chiefest force should on this sudden fall?
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,
[Third Chorus.] See, see our idle hopes, our brittle trust,
[Fourth Chorus.] Our vain desires, our over-fickle stateWhich, 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!
[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 realmThus topsy-turvy turn, would grudge to die.
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 restsThat 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 allThe Isles inserted near those seas; and nextThe 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! erstMy 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 deathBe aye unknowen, so that in every coastI still be fear’d, and look’d for every hour.[ExeuntArthurandCador.
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.
[ExeuntArthurandCador.
Chorus.
1.