Part 18

ARTHUR, CADOR, CHORUS.

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.

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.

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 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 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.

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 of_ MORDRED _in 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 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.

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 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 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) 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,

[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 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 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. [_Exeunt_ ARTHUR _and_ CADOR.

CHORUS.

1. Lo, here the end that fortune sends at last To him, whom first she heav’d to highest hap! The flattering look, wherewith he long was led; The smiling fates, that oft had fed his fame, The many wars and conquests which he gain’d, Are dash’d at once: one day infers that foil, Whereof so many years of yore were free.

2. O willing world to magnify man’s state! O most unwilling to maintain the same! Of all misfortunes and unhappy fates Th’ unhappiest seems to have been happy once.[282] ’Twas Arthur sole, that never found his joys Disturb’d with woe, nor woes reliev’d with joy. In prosperous state all heavenly pow’rs aspir’d; Now, made a wretch, not one that spares his spoil!

3. Yea, fortune’s self in this afflicted case Exacts a pain for long-continued pomp. She urgeth now the bliss of wonted weal, And bears him down with weight of former fame. His praises past be present shame. O fickle trust, Whiles fortune chops and changeth every chance, What certain bliss can we enjoy alive, Unless, whiles yet our bliss endures, we die?

4. Yea, since before his last and utmost gasp, None can be deem’d a happy man or bless’d, Who dares commit himself to prosperous fates, Whose death prepar’d attends not hard at hand: That sithence death must once determine all, His life may sooner fly, than fortune flit.

THE SECOND SCENE.

GORLOIS.

GORLOIS. Now, Gorlois, ’suage thyself. Pride hath his pay, Murther his price, adult’ry his desert, Treason his meed, disloyalty his doom, Wrong hath his wreak, and guilt his guerdon bears! Not one abuse erst offered by thy foes, But, since most sternly punish’d, is now purg’d. Where thou didst fall, ev’n on the self-same soil, Pendragon, Arthur, Mordred, and their stock Found all their foils: not one hath ’scaped revenge; Their line from first to last quite razed out! Now rest content, and work no further plagues: Let future age be free from Gorlois’ ghost: Let Britain henceforth bathe in endless weal. Let Virgo come from heaven, the glorious star, The Zodiac’s joy, the planets’ chief delight, The hope of all the year, the ease of skies, The air’s relief, the comfort of the earth! That virtuous Virgo, born for Britain’s bliss; That peerless branch of Brute; that sweet remain Of Priam’s state; that hope of springing Troy, Which, time to come and many ages hence, Shall of all wars compound eternal peace. Let her reduce the golden age again, Religion, ease, and wealth of former world. Yea, let that Virgo come, and Saturn’s reign,[283] And years, oft ten times told, expir’d in peace. A rule that else no realm shall ever find, A rule most rare, unheard, unseen, unread; The sole example that the world affords. That (Britain), that renowm, yea, that is thine. B’ it so: my wrath is wrought. Ye furies black And ugly shapes, that howl in holes beneath: Thou Orcus dark, and deep Avernus nook, With duskish dens out-gnawn in gulfs below, Receive your ghastly charge, Duke Gorlois’ ghost! Make room! I gladly, thus reveng’d, return! And though your pain surpass, I greet them tho! He hates each other heaven, that haunteth hell. [_Descendit._

EPILOGUS.

See here by this the tickle trust of time: The false affiance of each mortal force; The wavering weight of fates: the fickle trace, That fortune trips; the many mocks of life; The cheerless change, the easeless brunts and broils, That man abides, the restless race he runs. But most of all, see here the peerless pains: The lasting pangs, the stintless griefs, the tears: The sighs, the groans, the fears, the hopes, the hates: The thoughts and cares, that kingly pomp imparts. What follies, then, bewitch th’ ambitious minds, That thirst for sceptre’s pomp, the well of woes! Whereof (alas!) should wretched man be proud, Whose first conception is but sin, whose birth But pain, whose life but toil, and needs must die? See here the store of great Pendragon’s brood, The t’one quite dead, the t’other hastening on; As men, the son but green, the sire but ripe, Yet both forestall’d, ere half their race were run! As kings, the mightiest monarchs of this age, Yet both suppressed and vanquished by themselves. Such is the brittle breath of mortal man, Whiles human nature works her daily wracks: Such be the crazed crests of glorious crowns, Whiles worldly powers like sudden puffs do pass. And yet for one that goes, another comes; Some born, some dead: so still the store endures. So that both fates and common care provide, That men must needs be born, and some must rule. Wherefore, ye peers and lordings, lift aloft, And whosoe’er in thrones that judge your thralls, Let not your sovereignty heave you too high, Nor their subjection press them down too low. It is not pride that can augment your power, Nor lowly looks that long can keep them safe. The fates have found a way whereby, ere long, The proud must leave their hope, the meek their fear. Whoe’er received such favour from above, That could assure one day unto himself? Him whom the morning found both stout and strong, The evening left all grovelling on the ground. This breath and heat, wherewith man’s life is fed, Is but a flash or flame, that shines a while, And once extinct is, as it ne’er had been. Corruption hourly frets the body’s frame; Youth tends to age, and age to death by kind. Short is the race, prefixed is the end; Swift is the time, wherein man’s life doth run: But by his deeds t’extend renowm and fame, That only virtue works, which never fades.

FINIS.

Thomas Hughes.

_Sat citò, si sat benè: utcunque, Quoad non dat spes, dat optio._

Hereafter follow such speeches as were penned by others, and pronounced instead of some of the former speeches penned by Thomas Hughes.

A speech penned by William Fulbecke, gentleman, one of the society of Gray’s Inn, and pronounced instead of Gorlois his first speech penned by Thomas Hughes, and set down in the first Scene of the first Act.

Alecto, thou that hast excluded me From fields Elysian, where the guiltless souls Avoid the scourge of Rhadamanthus ire, Let it be lawful (sith I am removed From blessed islands to this cursed shore, This loathed earth, where Arthur’s table stands, With ordure foul of Harpies’ fierce distained) The fates and hidden secrets to disclose Of black Cocytus and of Acheron, The floods of death, the lakes of burning souls, Where hellish frogs do prophesy revenge; Where Tartar sprites with careful heed attend The dismal summons of Alecto’s mouth. Myself by precept of Proserpina Commanded was in presence to appear Before the synod of the damned sprites. In fearful mood I did perform their hest, And, at my entrance in, th’ enchanted snakes, Which wrap themselves about the furies’ necks, Did hiss for joy: and from the dreadful bench[284] The supreme fury thus assign’d her charge. Gorlois, quoth she, thou thither must ascend, Whence, through the rancour of malicious foes, Wearied with wounds thou didst descend to us. Make Britain now the mark of thy revenge: On ruthless Britons and Pendragon’s race Disburse the treasure of thy hellish plagues. Let blood contend with blood, father with son, Subject with prince, and let confusion reign. She therewithal enjoin’d the dusky clouds, Which with their darkness turn’d the earth to hell, Convert to blood, and pour down streams of blood. Cornwall shall groan, and Arthur’s soul shall sigh: Before the conscience of Guenevera The map of hell shall hang, and fiends shall rage; And Gorlois’ ghost exacting punishment With dreams, with horrors, and with deadly trance, Shall gripe their hearts: the vision of his corse Shall be to them, as was the terror vile Of flaming whips to Agamemnon’s son. And when the trumpet calls them from their rest, Aurora shall with wat’ry cheeks behold Their slaughtered bodies prostrate to her beams: And on the banks of Camela shall lie The bones of Arthur and of Arthur’s knights, Whose fleet is now triumphing on the seas, But shall be welcom’d with a tragedy. Thy native soil shall be thy fatal gulf, Arthur: thy place of birth thy place of death. Mordred shall be the hammer of my hate To beat the bones of Cornish lords to dust. Ye ravening birds under Celœno’s power, I do adjure you, in Alecto’s name, Follow the sword of Mordred where he goes; Follow the sword of Mordred for your food. Aspiring Mordred, thou must also die, And on the altar of Proserpina Thy vital blood unto my ghost shall fume. Heaven, earth, and hell concur to plague the man, That is the plague of heaven, earth, and hell! Thou bidd’st, Alecto: I pursue my charge. Let thy Cerastæ whistle in mine ears, And let the bells of Pluto ring revenge!

One other speech penned by the same gentleman, and pronounced instead of Gorlois his last speech penned by Thomas Hughes, and set down in the second Scene of the fifth and last Act.

Death hath his conquest, hell hath had his wish, Gorlois his vow, Alecto her desire; Sin hath his pay, and blood is quit with blood: Revenge in triumph bears the struggling hearts! Now, Gorlois, pierce the craggy rocks of hell, Through chinks whereof infernal sprites do glance, Return this answer to the furies’ court: That Cornwall trembles with the thought of war, And Tamar’s flood with drooping pace doth flow, For fear of touching Camel’s bloody stream. Britain, remember; write it on thy walls, Which neither time nor tyranny may raze, That rebels, traitors, and conspirators, The seminary of lewd Catiline, The bastard covey of Italian birds, Shall feel the flames of ever-flaming fire, Which are not quenched with a sea of tears. And since in thee some glorious star must shine, When many years and ages are expir’d, Whose beams shall clear the mist of miscontent, And make the damp of Pluto’s pit retire, Gorlois will never fray the Britons more: For Britain then becomes an angel’s land. Both devils and sprites must yield to angels’ power, Unto the goddess of the angels’ land. Vaunt, Britain, vaunt of her renowmed reign, Whose face deters the hags of hell from thee, Whose virtues hold the plagues of heaven from thee; Whose presence makes the earth fruitful to thee; And with foresight of her thrice-happy days, Britain, I leave thee to an endless praise.

Besides these speeches there was also penned a Chorus for the first act, and another for the second act, by Master Francis Flower, which were pronounced accordingly. The dumb shows were partly devised by Master Christopher Yelverton, Master Francis Bacon, Master John Lancaster and others, partly by the said Master Flower, who with Master Penruddock and the said Master Lancaster, directed these proceedings at Court.

[250] [A copy is in the library of the Duke of Devonshire; it was formerly Kemble’s.]

[251] Shown to be _true_: the author has converted the substantive _sooth_ into a verb.

[252] Ben Jonson opens his “Catiline” with the ghost of Sylla “ranging for revenge,” and he was only thirteen years old, when “The Misfortunes of Arthur” was performed at Greenwich before the Queen. Hughes, doubtless, had the commencement of Seneca’s “Thyestes” in his mind, and throughout he has been indebted more or less to that and other classical authorities. The ghost of Polydorus opens the “Hecuba” of Euripides. The ghost of Gorlois in this instance speaks the prologue to the tragedy.

[253] _Pheer_ is companion, and is most ordinarily applied to the male sex: Gorlois, however, refers to the infidelity of his wife.

[254] Unwieldy or _unmanageable_ of herself--not having any control over her actions. The sense is a little constrained.

[255] These lines as they stand in the original are nonsense--

“Whether to dround or stifll up _his_ breath, _On sorcing_ blood to dye with dint of knife.”

[256] Milton has this thought, almost in the same words, allowing for the difference of an interrogation.

“For where no hope is left, is left no fear.” --_Par. Reg. III. 206._

[257] The word _should_ is accidentally repeated in this line in the old copy.

[258] “But yet I’ll hope the best” is by mistake given to Conan in the old copy.

[259] In the old copy Mordred’s reply is made a part of Conan’s observation.

[260] By an apparent error in the original the five preceding lines are given to Mordred.

[261] Arthur’s name is misprinted for that of Mordred in this place in the original.

[262] It stands _rooms_ in the old copy, but to make sense of the line we must read _grooms_. [Grooms is here and afterwards used in the sense of _man_.]

[263] This reply, which belongs to Mordred, is given to Conan in the old copy.

[264] Instead of the words “commons grudge,” “realm envies” has been substituted and wafered over the text. The alteration, like some others, seems to have been originally pasted upon the objectionable passage.

[265] The following were substituted for the four preceding lines.

“The first art in a kingdom is to scorn The envy of the realm. He cannot rule That fears to be envi’d. What can divorce Envy from sovereignty? Must my deserts!”

[266] It does not appear whether Conan goes out, or stands by, listening to the dialogue between Mordred and Gawin in the following scene.

[267] _Pejor est bello timor ipse belli_-- Seneca, Thyestes, A. III. Chor.

Jasper Heywood (“Thyestes Faithfully Englished.” 1560) thus translates this passage--

“Worse is then warre it selfe the feare of fyght.”

[268] [_Dulce bellum inexpertis._]

[269] _i.e._, Gawin: the Herald went out before.

[270] It had been originally printed _Second_, but corrected by pasting _First_ over it.

[271] Old copy, _presence_.

[272] _i.e._, _Reach’d_ or _gave_ the reins to will.

[273] The word _subjection_ in this place has been pasted over “allegiance.”

[274] [Old copy, _promise_.]

[275] “Illi mors gravis incubat, Qui notus nimis omnibus, Ignotus moritur sibi.” --_Sen. Thyestes_, act ii. Chor.

[276] In the original misprinted _ceeepe_.

[277] _Overhippes_ in the original.

[278] [In the Chorus to the third scene, the word _foulter_ is used in the undoubted sense of falter--

“They fall and foulter like the mellow fruit.”

But see Nares, edit. 1859, _v. fouldring_.]

[279] [Old copy, _mischiefes_.]

[280] _Curæ leves loquuntur, ingentes stupent._

“The grief that does not speak, Whispers the o’er-fraught heart and bids it break.” --_Macbeth_, act iv., sc. 3.

[281] [Old copy, _pagions_.]