Part 14

Since thus through channels black of Limbo lake, And deep infernal flood of Stygian pool, The ghastly Charon’s boat transported back Thy ghost from Pluto’s pits and glooming shade To former light, once lost by dest’ny’s doom, Where proud Pendragon, broil’d with shameful lust, Despoil’d thee erst of wife, of land and life, Now, Gorlois, work thy wish, cast here thy gall: Glut on revenge! thy wrath abhors delays. What though (besides Pendragon’s poisoned end) The vile reproach he wrought thee by thy pheer,[253] Through deep increase of crimes alike is plagu’d; And that the shame thou sufered’st for his lusts, Reboundeth back and stifleth in his stock, Yet is not mischief’s measure all fulfill’d, Nor wreak sufficient wrought. Thy murdered corpse And dukedom reft for heavier vengeance cries. Come, therefore, blooms of settled mischief’s root: Come, each thing else what fury can invent, Wreak all at once! infect the air with plagues, Till bad to worse, till worse to worse be turn’d! Let mischiefs know no mean, nor plagues an end! Let th’ offspring’s sin exceed the former stock! Let none have time to hate his former fault, But still with fresh supply let punish’d crime Increase, till time it make a complete sin! Go to: some fact, which no age shall allow Nor yet conceal--some fact must needs be dur’d, That for the horror great and outrage fell Thereof may well beseem Pendragon’s brood. And first, while Arthur’s navies homeward float, Triumphantly bedeck’d with Roman spoils, Let Guenevera express what frantic moods Distract a wife, when wronging wedlock’s rights, Both fond and fell, she loves and loathes at once. Let deep despair pursue till, loathing life, Her hateful head in cowl and cloister lurk. Let traitorous Mordred keep his sire from shore; Let Britain rest a prey for foreign powers; Let sword and fire, still fed with mutual strife, Turn all the kings to ghosts: let civil wars And discord swell, till all the realm be torn! Even in that soil whereof myself was Duke, Where first my spouse Igerna brake her vow, Where this ungracious offspring was begot: In Cornwall--there let Mordred’s death declare, Let Arthur’s fatal wound bewray, the wrong, The murder vile, the rape of wife and weal, Wherewith their sire incens’d both Gods and man. Thus, thus Pendragon’s seed, so sown and reap’d, Thus cursed imps, ill-born and worse consum’d, Shall render just revenge for parents’ crimes, And penance do, t’ assuage my swelling wrath. The whiles, O Cassiopœa, gem-bright sign, Most sacred sight and sweet celestial star, This climate’s joy, plac’d in imperial throne, With fragrant olive-branch portending peace; And whosoe’er besides, ye heavenly powers, (Her stately train with influence divine, And mild aspect all prone to Britain’s good) Foresee what present plagues do threat this isle, Prevent not this my wreak. For you there rests A happier age, a thousand years to come; An age for peace, religion, wealth, and ease, When all the world shall wonder at your bliss: That, that is yours! Leave this to Gorlois’ ghost. And see where comes one engine of my hate, With moods and manners fit for my revenge. [_Exit_.

THE SECOND SCENE.

GUENEVERA, FRONIA.

GUENEVERA. And dares he after nine years’ space return, And see her face, whom he so long disdain’d? Was I then chose and wedded for his stale, To look and gape for his retireless sails, Puff’d back and flittering spread to every wind? O wrong, content with no revenge, seek out Undared plagues: teach Mordred how to rage: Attempt some bloody, dreadful, irksome fact, And such as Mordred would were rather his. Why stayest? It must he done! let bridle go: Frame out some trap beyond all vulgar guile, Beyond Medea’s wiles: attempt some fact, That any wight unwieldy[254] of herself, That any spouse unfaithful to her pheer, Durst e’er attempt in most despair of weal. Spare no revenge, b’ it poison, knife, or fire!

FRONIA. Good madam, temper these outrageous moods, And let not will usurp, where wit should rule.

GUENEVERA. The wrath that breatheth blood doth loathe to lurk: What reason most withholds, rage wrings perforce. I am disdain’d: so will I not be long. That very hour that he shall first arrive, Shall be the last that shall afford him life. Though neither seas, nor lands, nor wars abroad Sufficed for thy foil, yet shalt thou find Far worse at home--thy deep-displeased spouse. Whate’er thou hast subdu’d in all thy stay This hand shall now subdue; then stay thy fill. What’s this? my mind recoils and irks these threats: Anger delays, my grief gins to assuage, My fury faints, and sacred wedlock’s faith Presents itself. Why shunn’st thou fearful wrath? Add coals afresh: preserve me to this venge, At least exile thyself to realms unknown, And steal his wealth to help thy banish’d state; For flight is best. O base and heartless fear! Theft? Exile? Flight? all these may fortune send Unsought; but thee beseems more high revenge. Come, spiteful fiends, come, heaps of furies fell, Not one by one, but all at once! my breast Raves not enough: it likes me to be fill’d With greater monsters yet. My heart doth throb, My liver boils: somewhat my mind portends, Uncertain what; but whatsoever, it’s huge. So it exceed, be what it will, it’s well. Omit no plague, and none will be enough: Wrong cannot be reveng’d but by excess.

FRONIA. O, spare this heat! you yield too much to rage: Y’ are too unjust. Is there no mean in wrong?

GUENEVERA. Wrong claims a mean, when first you offer wrong: The mean is vain when wrong is in revenge. Great harms cannot be hid: the grief is small, That can receive advice, or rule itself.

FRONIA. Hatred conceal’d doth often hap to hurt, But once profess’d, it oft’ner fails revenge. How better tho’ wert to repress your ire: A lady’s best revenge is to forgive. What mean is in your hate? how much soe’er You can invent or dare, so much you hate.

GUENEVERA. And would you know what mean there is in hate? Call love to mind, and see what mean is there! My love, redoubled love, and constant faith Engaged unto Mordred works so deep, That both my heart and marrow quite be burnt, And sinews dried with force of wontless flames. Desire to joy him still torments my mind: Fear of his want doth add a double grief. Lo, here the love that stirs this meanless hate!

FRONIA. Eschew it far: such love impugns the laws.

GUENEVERA. Unlawful love doth like, when lawful loathes.

FRONIA. And is your love of husband quite extinct?

GUENEVERA. The greater flame must needs delay the less: Besides, his sore revenge I greatly fear.

FRONIA. How can you then attempt a fresh offence?

GUENEVERA. Who can appoint a stint to her offence?

FRONIA. But here the greatness of the fact should move.

GUENEVERA. The greater it, the fitter for my grief.

FRONIA. To kill your spouse?

GUENEVERA. A stranger and a foe.

FRONIA. Your liege and king.

GUENEVERA. He wants both realm and crown.

FRONIA. Nature affords not to your sex such strength.

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

FRONIA. What rage is this?

GUENEVERA. Such as himself shall rue.

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE THIRD SCENE.

GUENEVERA, ANGHARAT.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE FOURTH SCENE

MORDRED, GUENEVERA, CONAN.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MORDRED. Will war?

CONAN. That lies in chance.

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

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

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

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

MORDRED. The safest passage is from bad to worse.

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

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

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

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

CONAN. Extremest cures must not be used first.

MORDRED. In desperate times the headlong way is best.

CONAN. Y’ have many foes.

MORDRED. No more than faithful friends.

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

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

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

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

CONAN. The kingliest point is to affect but right.

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

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

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

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

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

CONAN. She noteth, though.

MORDRED. She feareth states.[259]

CONAN. She carpeth, ne’ertheless.

MORDRED. She’s soon suppress’d.

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

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

CHORUS.

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

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

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

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

_The Argument of the Second Act._

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE SECOND ACT AND FIRST SCENE.

NUNTIUS.