Part 16

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

THE THIRD ACT AND FIRST[270] SCENE.

ARTHUR, CADOR, HOWELL.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

HOWELL. If fortune fawn.

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

CADOR. Put case you win, what grief?

ARTHUR. Admit I do, what joy?

CADOR. Then may you rule.

ARTHUR. When I may die.

CADOR. To rule is much.

ARTHUR. Small, if we covet nought.

CADOR. Who covets not a crown?

ARTHUR. He that discerns the sword aloft.

CADOR. That hangeth fast.

ARTHUR. But by a hair.

CADOR. Right holds it up.

ARTHUR. Wrong pulls it down.

CADOR. The Commons help the king.

ARTHUR. They sometimes hurt.

CADOR. At least the Peers.

ARTHUR. Seld, if allegiance want.

CADOR. Yet sovereignty.

ARTHUR. Not if subjection[273] fail.

CADOR. Doubt not: the realm is yours.

ARTHUR. ’Twas mine ’till now.

CADOR. And shall be still.

ARTHUR. If Mordred list.

CADOR. ’Twere well your crown were won.

ARTHUR. Perhaps ’tis better lost.

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

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

HOWELL. The greatest food that fortune can afford.

ARTHUR. A dangerous good, that wisdom would eschew.

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

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

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

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

THE SECOND SCENE.

_An_ HERALD _from_ MORDRED.

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

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

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

THE THIRD SCENE.

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

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

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

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

SOLDIERS. Yea, yea, &c.

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

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

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

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

THE FOURTH SCENE.

CADOR, ARTHUR.

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

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

CHORUS.

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

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

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