Part 15

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

THE SECOND SCENE.

MORDRED, CONAN.

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

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

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

CONAN. The best redress from rage is to relent.

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

CONAN. So that the subjects also judge them foes.

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

CONAN. The subjects’ force is great.

MORDRED.[261] Greater the king’s.

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

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

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

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

CONAN. A greater peril comes by breach of laws.

MORDRED. The laws do licence as the sovereign lists.

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

MORDRED. Imperial power abhors to be restrain’d.

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

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

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

MORDRED. I would be fear’d.

CONAN. The cause why subjects hate.

MORDRED. A kingdom’s kept by fear.

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

MORDRED. The timorous subject dares attempt no change.

CONAN. What dares not desperate dread?

MORDRED.[263] What? torture, threats.

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

MORDRED. As safe to be obey’d.

CONAN. Whiles you command but well.

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

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

MORDRED. My will must go for right.

CONAN. If they assent.

MORDRED. My sword shall force assent.

CONAN. No, gods forbid!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MORDRED. The hugest crimes bring best success to some.

CONAN. Those some be rare.

MORDRED. Why may not I be rare?

CONAN. It was their hap.

MORDRED. It is my hope.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE THIRD SCENE.

HERALD, GAWIN, MORDRED.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MORDRED. The smallest axe may fell the hugest oak.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

GAWIN. But will no reason rule that desperate mind?

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

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

THE FOURTH SCENE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHORUS.

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

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

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

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

_The Argument of the Third Act._

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

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

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

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

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