Part 17

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

_The Argument of the Fourth Act._

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

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

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

_The Argument and Manner of the Fourth Dumb Show._

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

THE FOURTH ACT AND FIRST SCENE.

GILDAS, CONAN.

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

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

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

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

THE SECOND SCENE.

NUNCIUS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE THIRD SCENE.

GILDAS, CONAN.

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

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

CHORUS.

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

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

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

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

_The Argument of the Fifth Act._

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

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

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

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

THE FIFTH ACT AND FIRST SCENE.