At heart of him even then to shoot
    Is now my whole intent:
  And if that I his heart can hit,
    The king no drunkard is;
  If heart of his I do not kill,
    I yield to thee in this.
  Therefore, Praxaspes, fetch to me
    Thy youngest son with speed;
  There is no way, I tell thee plain,
    But I will do this deed.

                             PRAXASPES.

  Redoubted prince, spare my sweet child,
    He is mine only joy:
  I trust your grace to infant heart
    No such thing will employ.
  If that his mother hear of this,
    She is so nigh her flight,
  In clay her corpse will soon be shrin’d
    To pass from world’s delight.

                               KING.

  No more ado, go fetch me him,
    It shall be as I say:
  And if that I do speak the word,
    How dare ye once say nay?

                             PRAXASPES.

  I will go fetch him to your grace;
    But so, I trust, it shall not be.

                               KING.

  For fear of my displeasure great,
    Go fetch him unto me.
  Is he gone? Now, by the gods,
    I will do as I say;
  My lord, therefore, fill me some wine,
    I heartily you pray;
  For I must drink to make my brain
    Somewhat intoxicate:
  When that the wine is in my head,
    O, trimly I can prate!

                               LORD.

  Here is the cup with filled wine,
    Thereof to take repast.

                               KING.

  Give it me to drink it off,
    And see no wine be waste:
                                                            [_Drink._
  Once again enlarge this cup,
    For I must it still taste:[240]
                                                            [_Drink._
  By the gods, I think, of pleasant wine
    I cannot take my fill.
  Now drink is in, give me my bow,
    And arrows from sir knight;
  At heart of child I mean to shoot,
    Hoping to cleave it right.

                              KNIGHT.

  Behold (O king) where he doth come,
    His infant young in hand.

                             PRAXASPES.

  O mighty king, your grace behest
    With sorrow I have scann’d,
  And brought my child fro mother’s knee,
    Before you to appear:
  And she thereof no whit doth know,
    That he in place is here.

                               KING.

  Set him up my mark to be,
    I will shoot at his heart.

                             PRAXASPES.

  I beseech your grace not so to do,
    Set this pretence[241] apart.
  Farewell, my dear and loving babe;
    Come, kiss thy father dear;
  A grievous sight to me it is,
    To see thee slain even here.
  Is this the gain now from the king
    For giving counsel good,
  Before my face with such despite
    To spill my son’s heart-blood?
  O heavy day to me this is
    And mother in like case.

                            YOUNG CHILD.

  O father, father, wipe your face,
    I see the tears run from your eye:
  My mother is at home sewing of a band;
    Alas, dear father, why do you cry?

                               KING.

  Before me as a mark now let him stand;
    I will shoot at him my mind to fulfil.

                            YOUNG CHILD.

  Alas, alas! father, will you me kill?
    Good Master King, do not shoot at me,
  My mother loves me best of all.

                               KING.

  I have despatched him, down he doth fall;
                                                            [_Shoot._
  As right as a line his heart I have hit:
  Nay, thou shall see, Praxaspes, stranger news yet.
  My knight, with speed his heart cut out,
    And give it unto me.

                              KNIGHT.

  It shall be done (O mighty king)
    With all celerity.

                               LORD.

  My lord Praxaspes, this had not been,
    But your tongue must be walking;
  To the king of correction
    You must needs be talking.

                             PRAXASPES.

  No correction (my lord), but counsel for the best.

                              KNIGHT.

  Here is the heart, according to your grace’s behest.

                               KING.

  Behold, Praxaspes, thy son’s own heart:
    O, how well the same was hit!
  After this wine to do this deed,
    I thought it very fit:
  Esteem thou may’st right well thereby,
    No drunkard is the king,
  That in the midst of all his cups
    Could do this valiant thing.
  My lord and knight, on me attend;
    To palace we will go,
  And leave him here to take his son,
    When we are gone him fro.

                               ALL.

  With all our hearts we give consent
    To wait upon your grace.

                             PRAXASPES.

  A woful man (O lord) am I,
    To see him in this case:
  My days I deem desires their end,
    This deed will help me hence,
  To have the blossoms of my field
    Destroy’d by violence.

                          _Enter_ MOTHER.

                              MOTHER.

  Alas, alas! I do hear tell
    The king hath kill’d my son:
  If it be so, woe worth the deed,
    That ever it was done.
  It is even so, my lord, I see,
    How by him he doth weep:
  What meant I, that from hands of him
    This child I did not keep?
  Alas! husband and lord, what did you mean
    To fetch this child away?

                             PRAXASPES.

  O lady wife, I little thought
    For to have seen this day.

                              MOTHER.

  O blissful babe, O joy of womb,
    Heart’s comfort and delight,
  For counsel given unto the king,
    Is this thy just requite?
  O heavy day and doleful time,
    These mourning tunes to make!
  With blubb’red eyes into my arms
    From earth I will thee take,
  And wrap thee in mine apron white:
    But O my heavy heart?
  The spiteful pangs that it sustains
    Would make it in two to part:
  The death of this my son to see,
    O heavy mother now,
  That from thy sweet and sug’red joy
    To sorrow so shouldst bow.
  What grief in womb did I retain,
    Before I did thee see?
  Yet at the last, when smart was gone,
    What joy wert thou to me?
  How tender was I of thy food
    For to preserve thy state?
  How stilled I thy tender heart
    At times early and late?
  With velvet paps I gave thee suck,
    With issue from my breast,
  And danced thee upon my knee
    To bring thee unto rest.
  Is this the joy of thee I reap?
    O king of tiger’s brood!
  O tiger’s whelp, hadst thou the heart,
    To see this child’s heart-blood?
  Nature enforceth me, alas!
    In this wise to deplore;
  To wring my hands, O wel-away,
    That I should see this hour!
  Thy mother yet will kiss thy lips,
    Silk-soft and pleasant white;
  With wringing hands lamenting for
    To see thee in this plight.
  My lording dear, let us go home,
    Our mourning to augment.

                             PRAXASPES.

  My lady dear, with heavy heart
    To it I do consent:
  Between us both the child to bear
    Unto our lordly place.
                                                           [_Exeunt._

                        _Enter_ AMBIDEXTER.

                            AMBIDEXTER.

  Indeed, as ye say, I have been absent a long space:
  But is not my cousin Cutpurse with you in the meantime?
  To it, to it, cousin; and do your office fine.
  How like you Sisamnes for using of me?
  He play’d with both hands, but he sped ill favouredly.
  The king himself was godly uptrained;
  He professed virtue, but I think it was feigned:
  He plays with both hands good deeds and ill;
  But it was no good deed Praxaspes’ son for to kill:
  As he for the good deed on the judge was commended,
  For all his deeds else he is reprehended.
  The most evil-disposed person that ever was;
  All the state of his life he would not let pass.
  Some good deeds he will do, though they be but few:
  The like things this tyrant Cambyses doth show.
  No goodness from him to none is exhibited;
  But still maledictions abroad is distributed.
  And yet ye shall see in the rest of his race,
  What infamy he will work against his own grace.
  Whist, no more words: here comes the king’s brother.

      _Enter_ LORD SMIRDIS, _with_ ATTENDANCE _and_ DILIGENCE.

                              SMIRDIS.

  The king’s brother by birth am I,
    Issued from Cyrus’ loins:
  A grief to me it is to hear
    Of this the king’s repines.
  I like not well of those his deeds,
    That he doth still frequent;
  I wish to God, that other ways
    His mind he could content:
  Young I am, and next to him,
    No mo of us there be;
  I would be glad a quiet realm
    In this his reign to see.

                            ATTENDANCE.

  My lord, your good and willing heart
    The gods will recompense,
  In that your mind so pensive is
    For those his great offence.
  My lord, his grace shall have a time
    To pair and to amend:
  Happy is he that can escape,
    And not his grace offend.

                             DILIGENCE.

  If that wicked vice he could refrain,
    From wasting wine forbear,
  A moderate life he would frequent,
    Amending this his square.

                            AMBIDEXTER.

  My lord, and if your honour it shall please,
  I can inform you what is best for your ease;
  Let him alone, of his deeds do not talk,
  Then by his side ye may quietly walk;
  After his death you shall be king,
  Then may you reform each kind of thing.
  In the meantime live quietly, do not with him deal;
  So shall it redound much to your weal.

                              SMIRDIS.

  Thou say’st true, my friend, that is the best:
  I know not whether he love me, or do me detest.

                            ATTENDANCE.

  Learn from his company all that you may;
  I faithful Attendance will your honour obey.
  If against your honour he take any ire,
  His grace is as like to kindle his fire,
  To your honour’s destruction as otherwise.

                            DILIGENCE.

  Therefore, my lord, take good advice,
  And I Diligence your case will so tender,
  That to his grace your honour shall be none offender.

                              SMIRDIS.

  I thank you both, entire friends, with my honour still remain.

                            AMBIDEXTER.

  Behold, where the king doth come with his train.

                    _Enter_ KING _and one_ LORD.

                               KING.

  O lording dear, and brother mine,
    I joy your state to see;
  Surmising much what is the cause,
    You absent thus from me.

                              SMIRDIS.

  Pleaseth your grace, no absence I,
    But ready to fulfil
  At all assays, my prince and king,
    In that your grace me will:
  What I can do in true defence,
    To you, my prince, aright,
  In readiness I always am
    To offer forth my might.

                               KING.

  And I the like to you again
    Do here avouch the same.

                                ALL.

  For this your good agreement here,
    Now praised be God’s name.

                            AMBIDEXTER.

  But hear ye, noble prince; hark in your ear:
    It is best to do as I did declare.

                               KING.

  My lord and brother Smirdis now,
    This is my mind and will,
  That you to court of mine return,
    And there to tarry still,
  Till my return within short space
    Your honour for to greet.

                              SMIRDIS.

  At your behest so will I do,
    Till time again we meet:
  My leave I take from you (O king);
    Even now I do depart.
                      [_Exeunt_ SMIRDIS, ATTENDANCE, _and_ DILIGENCE.

                               KING.

  Farewell lord and brother mine,
    Farewell with all my heart.
  My lord, my brother Smirdis is
    Of youth and manly might;
  And in his sweet and pleasant face
    My heart doth take delight.

                               LORD.

  Yea, noble prince, if that your grace
    Before his honour die,
  He will succeed a virtuous king,
    And rule with equity.

                               KING.

  As you have said, my lord, he is
    Chief heir next my grace:
  And if I die to-morrow, next
    He shall succeed my place.

                            AMBIDEXTER.

  And if it please your grace (O king),
    I heard him say,
  For your death unto the god[s,]
    Day and night he did pray:
  He would live so virtuously,
    And get him such a praise,
  That Fame by trump his due deserts
    His honour should up-raise.
  He said your grace deserved had
    The cursing of all men;
  That ye should never after him
    Get any praise again.

                               KING.

  Did he speak thus of my grace,
    In such despiteful wise?
  Or else dost thou presume to fill
    My princely ears with lies?

                               LORD.

  I cannot think it in my heart,
    That he would report so.

                               KING.

  How sayst thou? speak the truth,
    Was it so or no?

                            AMBIDEXTER.

  I think so, if it please your grace, but I cannot tell.

                               KING.

  Thou play’st with both hands, now I perceive well,
    But for to put all doubts aside,
  And to make him lese his hope,
    He shall die by dent of sword,
  Or else by choking rope.
    Shall he succeed when I am gone,
  To have more praise than I?
    Were he father, as brother mine,
  I swear that he shall die.
    To palace mine I will therefore,
  His death for to pursue.
                                                             [_Exit._

                            AMBIDEXTER.

  Are ye gone? straightway I will follow you.
  How like ye now, my masters? doth not this gear cotton?
  The proverb old is verified, soon ripe and soon rotten.
  He will not be quiet, till his brother he kill’d:
  His delight is wholly to have his blood spill’d.
  Marry, sir, I told him a notable lie:
  If it were to do again, man, I durst do it, I.
  Marry, when I had done, to it I durst not stand:
  Thereby you may perceive I use to play with each hand.
  But how now, cousin Cutpurse? with whom play you?
  Take heed, for his hand is groping even now:
  Cousin, take heed, if ye do secretly grope;
  If ye be taken, cousin, ye must look through a rope.
                                                             [_Exit_.

                   _Enter_ LORD SMIRDIS _alone_.

                              SMIRDIS.

  I am wand’ring alone, here and there to walk;
    The court is so unquiet, in it I take no joy:
  Solitary to myself now I may talk;
    If I could rule, I wist what to say.

         _Enter_ CRUELTY _and_ MURDER _with bloody hands_.

                              CRUELTY.

  My coequal partner Murder, come away;
  From me long thou may’st not stay.

                              MURDER.

  Yes, from thee I may stay, but not thou from me:
  Therefore I have a prerogative above thee.

                              CRUELTY.

  But in this case we must together abide:
  Come, come; Lord Smirdis I have spied:
  Lay hands on him with all festination,
  That on him we may work our indignation.

                              SMIRDIS.

  How now, my friends? What have you to do with me?

                              MURDER.

  King Cambyses hath sent us unto thee,
  Commanding us straitly without mercy or favour,
  Upon thee to bestow our behaviour;
  With Cruelty to murder you, and make you away.
                                      [_Strike him in divers places._

                              SMIRDIS.

  Yet pardon me, I heartily you pray:
  Consider, the king is a tyrant tyrannious;
  And all his doings be damnable and pernicious:
  Favour me therefore, I did him never offend.

                              CRUELTY.

  No favour at all; your life is at an end.
  Even now I strike his body to wound:
  Behold, now his blood springs out on the ground.
                              [_A little bladder of vinegar pricked._

                              MURDER.

  Now he is dead, let us present him to the king.

                              CRUELTY.

  Lay to your hand, away him to bring.
                                                           [_Exeunt._

                        _Enter_ AMBIDEXTER.

                            AMBIDEXTER.

  O’ the passion of God, yonder is a heavy court:
  Some weeps, some wails, and some make great sport.
  Lord Smirdis by Cruelty and Murder is slain;
  But, Jesus! for want of him, how some do complain!
  If I should have had a thousand pound, I could not forbear weeping.
  Now Jesus have his blessed soul in keeping!
  Ah good lord to think on him, how it doth me grieve!
  I cannot forbear weeping, ye may me believe.
                                                             [_Weep._
  O my heart! how my pulses do beat:
  With sorrowful lamentations I am in such a heat.
  Ah my heart! how for him it doth sorrow!
  Nay, I have done in faith now, and God give you good morrow!
  Ha, ha, weep! nay, laugh, with both hands to play;
  The king through his cruelty hath made him away.
  But hath not he wrought a most wicked deed?
  Because king after him he should not proceed,
  His own natural brother, and having no more,
  To procure his death by violence sore;
  In spite because his brother should never be king,
  His heart being wicked consented to this thing.
  Now he hath no more brothers nor kindred alive:
  If the king use this gear still, he cannot long thrive.

                       _Enter_ HOB _and_ LOB.

                                HOB.

  God’s hat, neighbours, come away; it’s time to market to go.

                                LOB.

  God’s vast, neighbour, zay ye zo?
  The clock hath stricken vive, ich think, by lakin:[242]
  Bum vay,[243] vrom sleep cham not very well waken.
  But, neighbour Hob, neighbour Hob, what have ye to zell?

                                HOB.

  Bum troth, neighbour Lob, to you I chil tell:
  Chave two goslings and a chine of good pork;
  There is no vatter between this and York.
  Chave a pot of strawberries and a calf’s head,
  A zennight zince to-morrow it hath been dead.

                                LOB.

  Chave a score of eggs and of butter a pound:
  Yesterday a nest of goodly young rabbits I vound.
  Chave forty things mo, of more and of less;
  My brain is not very good them to express.
  But God’s hat, neighbour, wot’st what?

                                HOB.

  No, not well, neighbour, what’s that?

                                LOB.

  Bum vay, neighbour, master king is a zhrode lad;
  Zo God help me and holidam, I think the vool be mad:
  Zome zay he deal cruelly, his brother he did kill;
  And also a goodly young lad’s heart-blood he did spill.

                                HOB.

  Vorbod of God, neighbour, has he played such a voolish deed?

                            AMBIDEXTER.

  Goodman Hob and goodman Lob, God be your speed:
  As you two towards market did[244] walk,
  Of the king’s cruelty I did hear you talk,
  I insure you he is a king most vile and pernicious;
  His doings and life are odious and vicious.

                                LOB.

  It were a good deed zomebody would break his head.

                                HOB.

  Bum vay, neighbour Lob, I chould he were dead.

                            AMBIDEXTER.

  So would I, Lob and Hob, with all my heart.
  Now with both hands will ye see me play my part?          [_Aside_.
  Ah, ye whoreson traitorly knaves;
  Hob and Lob, out upon you, slaves!

                                LOB.

  And thou call’st me knave, thou art another:
  My name is Lob, and Hob my next neighbour.

                            AMBIDEXTER.

  Hob and Lob, ah ye country patches!
  Ah ye fools! ye have made wrong matches;
  Ye have spoken treason against the king’s grace:
  For it I will accuse ye before his face;
  Then for the same ye shall be martyr’d:
  At the least ye shall be hang’d, drawn, and quartered.

                                HOB.

  O gentleman, ye shall have two pear-pies, and tell not of me.

                                LOB.

  By God, a vat goose chill give thee:
  I think no hurt, by my vather’s soul I swear.

                                HOB.

  Chave lived well all my life-time my neighbours among,
  And now chould be loth to come to zuch wrong:
  To be hanged and quartered the grief would be great.

                                LOB.

  A foul evil on thee, Hob! who bid thee on it treat?
  Vor it was thou that first did him name.

                                HOB.

  Thou liest like a varlet, and thou zay’st the same;
  It was zuch a voolish Lob as thou.

                                LOB.

  Speak many words, and by Cod’s nails I vow,
  Upon thy pate my staff I will lay.

                            AMBIDEXTER.

  By the mass, I will cause them to make a fray.            [_Aside._
  Yea, Lob, thou sayest true, all came through him.

                                LOB.

  Bum vay, thou Hob, a little would make me ye trim;
  Give thee a zwap on thy nose, till thy heart ache.

                                HOB.

  If thou darest, do it; else, man, cry creke:
  I trust, before thou hurt me,
  With my staff chill make a Lob of thee.
                         [_Here let them fight with their staves, not
                           come near another by three or four yards;
                           the_ VICE _set them on as hard as he can:
                           one of their wives come out, and all to
                           beat the_ VICE, _he run away_.

          _Enter_ MARIAN-MAY-BE-GOOD, HOB’S _wife, running
                  in with a broom, and part them._

                              MARIAN.

  O’ the body of me, husband Hob, what, mean you to fight?
  For the passion of God, no more blows smite.
  Neighbours and friends so long, and now to fall out!
  What, in your age to seem so stout?
  If I had not parted ye, one had kill’d another.

                                LOB.

  I had not cared, I swear by God’s mother.

                              MARIAN.

  Shake hands again at the request of me;
  As ye have been friends, so friends still be.

                                HOB.

  Bum troth, cham content, and zay’st word, neighbour Lob?

                                LOB.

  I am content; agreed, neighbour Hob.
                   [_Shake hands, and laugh heartily one at another_.

                              MARIAN.

  So, get you to market, no longer stay;
    And with yonder knave let me make a fray.

                                HOB.

  Content, wife Marian, chill do as thou dost say
  But buss me, ich pray thee, at going away.
                                                  [_Exeunt_ HOB, LOB.

                              MARIAN.

  Thou whoreson knave and prickear’d boy,
    Why didst thou let them fight?
  If one had kill’d another here,
    Couldst thou their deaths requite?
  It bears a sign by this thy deed,
    A cowardly knave thou art;
  Else wouldst thou draw that weapon thine,
    Like a man them to part.

                            AMBIDEXTER.

  What, Marian-may-be-good, are you come prattling?
  Ye may hap get a box on the ear with your talking:
  If they had kill’d one another, I had not cared a pease.
                   [_Here let her swinge him with[245] her broom, she
                     gets him down, and he her down, thus one on the
                     top of another make pastime._

                              MARIAN.

  Ah villain, myself on thee I must ease:
  Give me a box on the ear? that will I try;
  Who shall be master, thou shalt see by and by.

                            AMBIDEXTER.

  O, no more, no more, I beseech you heartily;
  Even now I yield, and give you the mastery.
                              [_Run his way out, whilst she is down._

                              MARIAN.

  Ah knave, dost thou throw me down, and run thy way?
  If he were here again, O, how I would him pay!
  I will after him; and if I can him meet,
  With these my nails his face I will greet.

         _Enter_ VENUS _leading out her son_ CUPID _blind_:
           _he must have a bow and two shafts, one headed
              with gold and the other headed with lead_.

                               VENUS.

  Come forth, my son, unto my words
    Attentive ears resign:
  What I pretend, see you frequent,
    To force this game of mine.
  The king a kinswoman hath,
    Adorn’d with beauty store;
  And I wish that Diana’s gifts,
    They twain shall keep no more;
  But use my silver sug’red game
    Their joys for to augment.
  When I do speak to wound his heart,
    Cupid my son, consent:
  And shoot at him the shaft of love,
    That bears the head of gold,
  To wound his heart in lover’s wise,
    His grief for to unfold.
  Though kin she be unto his grace,
    That nature me expel,
  Against the course thereof he may,
    In my game please me well;
  Wherefore, my son, do not forget,
    Forthwith pursue the deed.

                               CUPID.

  Mother, I mean for to obey,
    As you have whole decreed:
  But you must tell me, mother dear,
    When I shall arrow draw;
  Else your request to be attain’d
    Will not be worth a straw:
  I am blind and cannot see;
    But still do shoot by guess;
  The poets well in places store
    Of my might do express.

                               VENUS.

  Cupid my son, when time shall serve,
    That thou shalt do this deed,
  Then warning I to thee will give;
    But see thou shoot with speed.

                 _Enter_ LORD, LADY, WAITING MAID.

                               LORD.

  Lady dear, to king akin,
    Forthwith let us proceed
  To trace abroad the beauty fields,
    As erst we had decreed:
  The blowing buds whose savoury scents
    Our sense will much delight.
  The sweet smell of musk-white rose,
    To please the appetite,
  The chirping birds, whose pleasant tunes
    Therein shall hear record,
  That our great joy we shall it find,
    In field to walk abroad.
  On lute and cittern there to play
    A heavenly harmony,
  Our ears shall hear, heart to content,
    Our sports to beautify.[246]

                                LADY.

  Unto your words, most comely lord,
    Myself submit do I;
  To trace with you in field so green,
    I mean not to deny.
                                   [_Here trace up and down playing._

                                MAID.

  And I your waiting maid at hand
    With diligence will be
  For to fulfil with heart and hand,
    When you shall command me.

                 _Enter_ KING, LORD, _and_ KNIGHT.

                               KING.

  Come on, my Lord and Knight, abroad
    Our mirth let us employ:
  Since he is dead, this heart of mine
    In corpse I feel it joy.
  Should brother mine have reigned king,
    When I had yielded breath?
  A thousand brothers I rather had,
    To put them all to death.
  But, O, behold where do I see
    A lord and lady fair;
  For beauty she most worthy is
    To sit in prince’s chair.

                               VENUS.

  Shoot forth, my son, now is the time
    That thou must wound his heart.

                               CUPID.

  Content you, mother, I will do my part.
                        [_Shoot there, and go out_ VENUS _and_ CUPID.

                               KING.

  Of truth, my lord, in eye of mine
    All ladies she doth excel:
  Can none report, what dame she is,
    And to my grace it tell?

                               LORD.

  Redoubted prince, pleaseth your grace,
    To you she is akin;
  Cousin-german nigh of birth,
    By mother’s side come in

                              KNIGHT.

  And that her waiting maiden is,
    Attending her upon:
  He is a lord of prince’s court,
    And will be there anon.
  They sport themselves in pleasant field,
    To former used use.

                               KING.

  My Lord and Knight, of truth I speak,
    My heart it cannot choose;
  But with my lady I must speak,
    And so express my mind.
  My lord and ladies, walking there,
    If you will favour find,
  Present yourselves unto my grace,
    And by my side come stand.

                            FIRST LORD.

  We will fulfil, most mighty king,
    As your grace doth command.

                               KING.

  Lady dear, intelligence
    My grace hath got of late;
  You issued out of mother’s stock,
    And kin unto my state:
  According to rule of birth you are
    Cousin-german mine;
  Yet do I wish that farther off
    This kindred I could find:
  For Cupid he, that eyeless boy,
    My heart hath so inflamed
  With beauty you me to content
    The like cannot be named;
  For since I ent’red in this place,
    And on you fix’d mine eyes,
  Most burning fits about my heart
    In ample wise did rise.
  The heat of them such force doth yield,
    My corpse they scorch, alas!
  And burns the same with wasting heat,
    As Titan doth the grass.
  And sith this heat is kindled so,
    And fresh in heart of me,
  There is no way but of the same
    The quencher you must be:
  My meaning is, that beauty yours
    My heart with love doth wound;
  To give me love, mind to content
    My heart hath you out-found:
  And you are she must be my wife,
    Else shall I end my days.
  Consent to this, and be my queen,
    To wear the crown with praise.

                                LADY.

  If it please your grace (O mighty king)
    You shall not this request;
  It is a thing that nature’s course
    Doth utterly detest:
  And high it would the God displease,
    Of all that is the worst;
  To grant your grace to marry so,
    It is not that I durst:
  Yet humble thanks I render now
    Unto you, mighty king,
  That you vouchsafe to great estate,
    So gladly would me bring:
  Were it not it were offence,
    I would it not deny;
  But such great honour to achieve
    My heart I would apply.
  Therefore (O king) with humble heart
    In this I pardon crave:
  Mine answer is in this request,
    Your mind ye may not have.

                               KING.

  May I not? nay, then I will,
    By all the gods I vow:
  And I will marry thee as wife;
    This is mine answer now:
  Who dare say nay what I pretend:
    Who dare the same withstand,
  Shall lose his head, and have report
    As traitor through my land:
  There is no nay, I will you have,
    And you my queen shall be.

                                LADY.

  Then, mighty king, I crave your grace,
    To hear the words of me:
  Your counsel take of lordings’ wit,
    The laws aright peruse;
  If I with safe may grant this deed,
    I will it not refuse.

                               KING.

  No, no; what I have said to you,
    I mean to have it so:
  For counsel theirs I mean not, I,
    In this respect to go.
  But to my palace let us go,
    The marriage to prepare;
  For to avoid my will in this,
    I can it not forbear.

                                LADY.

  O God, forgive me, if I do amiss;
  The king by compulsion enforceth me this.

                                MAID.

  Unto the gods for your estate
    I will not cease to pray;
  That you may be a happy queen,
    And see most joyful day.

                                KING.

  Come on, my lords, with gladsome hearts
    Let us rejoice with glee:
  Your music show to joy this deed
    At the request of me.

                                BOTH.

  For to obey your grace’s words
    Our honours do agree.
                                                           [_Exeunt._

                        _Enter_ AMBIDEXTER.

                            AMBIDEXTER.

  O’ the passion of me! marry, as ye say, yonder is a royal court;
  There is triumphing, and sport upon sport:
  Such loyal lords with such lordly exercise,
  Frequenting such pastime as they can devise;
  Running at tilt, justing, with running at the ring,
  Masquing and mumming, with each kind of thing,
  Such dancing, such singing, with musical harmony:
  Believe me, I was loth to absent their company.
  But will you believe? Jesu! what haste they made, till they were
    married?
  Not for a million of pounds one day longer they would have tarried.
  O, there was a banquet royal and superexcellent;
  Thousands and thousands at that banquet was spent.
  I muse of nothing but how they can be married so soon;
  I care not, if I be married before to-morrow at noon,
  If marriage be a thing that so may be had:
  How say you, maid? to marry me will ye be glad?
  Out of doubt, I believe, it is some excellent treasure,
  Else to the same belongs abundant pleasure.
  Yet with mine ears I have heard some say,--
  _That ever I was married, now cursed be the day!_
  Those be they, that with curs’d wives be matched,
  That husband for hawks’ meat of them is up snatched,
  Head broke with a bedstaff, face be all-to scratched:
  Knave, slave and villain! a coil’d coat now and then;
  When the wife hath given in, she will say, alas, good-man!
  Such were better unmarried, my masters, I trow,
  Than all their life after to be matched with a shrow.

                        _Enter_ PREPARATION.

                            PREPARATION.

  With speed I am sent all things to prepare,
  My message to do as the king did declare.
  His grace doth mean a banquet to make,
  Meaning in this place repast for to take.
  Well, the cloth shall be laid, and all things in readiness,
  To court to return, when done, is my business.

                            AMBIDEXTER.

  A proper man, and also a fit,
  For the king’s estate to prepare a banquet.

                            PREPARATION.

  What, Ambidexter? thou art not unknown;
  A mischief on all good faces, so that I curse not mine own:
  Now, in the knave’s name, shake hands with me.

                            AMBIDEXTER.

  Well said, goodman pouchmouth, your reverence I see,
  I will teach ye, if your manners no better be:
  Ah, ye slave! the king doth me a gentleman allow:
  Therefore I look that to me ye shall bow.
                                                            [_Fight._

                            PREPARATION.

  Good Master Ambidexter, pardon my behaviour;
  For this your deed ye are a knave for your labour.

                            AMBIDEXTER.

  Why, ye stale counterly villain, nothing but knave?
                                                            [_Fight._

                            PREPARATION.

  I am sorry, your mastership offended I have:
  Shake hands, that between us agreement may be;
  I was over-shot with myself, I do see.
  Let me have your help, this furniture to provide;
  The king from this place will not long abide.

                            AMBIDEXTER.

                                       [_Set the fruit on the board_.
  Content; it is the thing that I would wish:
  I myself will go fetch on dish.
                    [_Let the_ VICE _set a dish of nuts, and let them
                      fall in the bringing of them in_.

                            PREPARATION.

  Cleanly! Master Ambidexter; for fair on the ground they lie.

                            AMBIDEXTER.

  I will have them up again by and by.

                            PREPARATION.

  To see all in readiness I will put you in trust:
  There is no nay, to the court needs I must.
                                                 [_Exit_ PREPARATION.

                            AMBIDEXTER.

  Have you no doubt, but all shall be well?
  Marry, sir, as you say, this gear doth excel:
  All things is in a readiness, when they come hither,
  The king’s grace and the queen both together.
  I beseech ye, my masters, tell me, is it not best
  That I be so bold as to bid a guest?
  He is as honest a man as ever spurr’d cow:
  My cousin Cutpurse, I mean, I beseech ye, judge you.
  Believe me, cousin, if to be the king’s guest ye could be taken,
  I trust that offer would not be forsaken.
  But, cousin, because to that office ye are not like to come,
  Frequent your exercises, a horn on your thumb,
  A quick eye, a sharp knife, at hand a receiver:
  But then take heed, cousin, ye be a cleanly conveyor;
  Content yourself, cousin, for this banquet you are unfit,
  When such as I at the same am not worthy to sit.

                  _Enter_ KING, QUEEN, LORDS, _&c._

                               KING.

  My queen and lords, to take repast
    Let us attempt the same;
  Here is the place, delay no time,
    But to our purpose frame.

                               QUEEN.

  With willing hearts your whole behest
    We mind for to obey.

                                ALL.

  And we, the rest of prince’s train,
    Will do as you do say.
                                               [_Sit at the banquet._

                               KING.

  Methink, mine ears doth wish the sound
    Of music’s harmony;
  Here for to play before my grace,
    In place I would them spy.
                                              [_Play at the banquet._

                            AMBIDEXTER.

  They be at hand, sir, with stick and fiddle;
  They can play a new dance called _Hey-diddle-diddle_.

                               KING.

  My queen, perpend: what I pronounce
    I will not violate;
  But one thing which my heart makes glad,
    I mind to explicate:
  You know, in court uptrained is
    A lion very young,
  Of one litter two whelps beside,
    As yet not very strong;
  I did request one whelp to see
    And this young lion fight:
  But lion did the whelp convince
    By strength of force and might
  His brother whelp, perceiving that
    The lion was too good,
  And he by force was like to see
    The other whelp his blood,
  With force to lion he did run
    His brother for to help:
  A wonder great it was to see
    That friendship in a whelp.
  So then the whelps between them both
    The lion did convince;
  Which thing to see before mine eyes
    Did glad the heart of prince.
                           [_At this tale told let the_ QUEEN _weep_.

                               QUEEN.

  These words to hear makes stilling tears
    Issue from crystal eyes.

                               KING.

  What dost thou mean, my spouse, to weep
    For loss of any prize?

                               QUEEN.

  No, no (O king); but as you see
    Friendship in brothers whelp,
  When one was like to have repulse,
    The other yielded help.
  And was this favour show’d in dogs,
    To shame of royal king?
  Alack, I wish these ears of mine
    Had not once heard this thing.
  Even so should you (O mighty king)
    To brother been a stay;
  And not, without offence to you,
    In such wise him to slay.
  In all assays it was your part
    His cause to have defended;
  And whosoever had him misused,
    To have them reprehended:
  But faithful love was more in dog,
    Than it was in your grace.

                               KING.

  O cursed caitiff, vicious and vile,
    I hate thee in this place.
  This banquet is at an end,
    Take all these things away:
  Before my face thou shalt repent
    The words that thou dost say.
  O wretch most vile, didst thou the cause
    Of brother mine so tender?
  The loss of him should grieve thy heart,
    He being none offender.
  It did me good his death to have,
    So will it to have thine;
  What friendship he had at my hands,
    The same even thou shalt find.
  I give consent and make a vow,
    That thou shalt die the death;
  By Cruel’s sword, and Murder fell,
    Even thou shalt lose the breath.
  Ambidexter, see with speed
    To Cruelty ye go;
  Cause him hither to approach,
    Murder with him also.

                            AMBIDEXTER.

  I ready am for to fulfil,
    If that it be your grace’s will.

                               KING.

  Then nought oblight[247] my message given,
    Absent thyself away.

                            AMBIDEXTER.

  [_Aside_] Then in this place I will no longer stay.
  If that I durst, I would mourn your case;
  But, alas, I dare not for fear of his grace.
                                                  [_Exit_ AMBIDEXTER.

                               KING.

  Thou cursed jill, by all the gods
    I take an oath and swear,
  That flesh of thine these hands of mine
    In pieces small could tear;
  But thou shalt die by dent of sword,
    There is no friend ne fee
  Shall find remorse at prince’s hand
    To save the life of thee.

                               QUEEN.

  O mighty king and husband mine,
    Vouchsafe to hear me speak,
  And licence give to spouse of thine
    Her patient mind to break:
  For tender love unto your grace
    My words I did so frame,
  For pure love doth heart of king
    Me violate and blame.
  And to your grace is this offence,
    That I should purchase death?
  Then cursed time that I was queen,
    To shorten this my breath!
  Your grace doth know by marriage true
    I am your wife and spouse,
  And one to save another’s health
    (At troth-plight) made our vows.
  Therefore, O king, let loving queen
    At thy hand find remorse,
  Let pity be a mean to quench
    That cruel raging force:
  And pardon plight from prince’s mouth,
    Yield grace unto your queen,
  That amity with faithful zeal
    May ever be us between.

                               KING.

  Ah caitiff vile, to pity thee
    My heart it is not bent?
  Ne yet to pardon your offence
    It is not mine intent.

                            FIRST LORD.

  Our mighty prince, with humble suit
    Of you this grace I crave,
  That this request it may take place,
    Your favour for to have.
  Let mercy yet abundantly
    The life of queen preserve,
  Sith she is most obedient wife
    Your grace’s will doth serve.
  As yet your grace but while with her
    Hath had cohabitation;
  And sure this is no desert why,
    To yield her indignation.
  Therefore (O king) her life prolong,
    To joy her days in bliss.

                            SECOND LORD.

  Your grace shall win immortal fame
    In granting unto this;
  She is a queen whose goodly hue
    Excels the royal rose:
  For beauty bright Dame Nature she
    A large gift did dispose;
  For comeliness who may compare?
    Of all she bears the bell;
  This should give cause to move your grace
    To love her very well;
  Her silver breasts in those your arms
    To sing the songs of love;
  Fine qualities most excellent
    To be in her you prove;
  A precious pearl of price to prince,
    A jewel passing all:
  Therefore (O king) to beg remorse
    On both my knees I fall;
  To grant her grace to have her life
    With heart I do desire.

                               KING.

  You villains twain, with raging force
    Ye set my heart on fire:
  If I consent that she shall die,
    How dare ye crave her life?
  You two to ask this at my hand
    Doth much enlarge my strife;
  Were it not for shame, you two should die,
    That for her life do sue:
  But favour mine from you is gone,
    My lords, I tell you true.
  I sent for Cruelty of late;
    If he would come away,
  I would commit her to his hands
    His cruel part to play.
  Even now I see where he doth come,
    It doth my heart delight.

                   _Enter_ CRUELTY _and_ MURDER.

                              CRUELTY.

  Come, Murder, come; let us go forth with might;
  Once again the king’s commandment we must fulfil.

                              MURDER.

  I am contented to do it with a good will.

                                KING.

  Murder and Cruelty, for both of you I sent,
  With all festination your offices to frequent:
  Lay hold on the queen, take her to your power,
  And make her away within this hour;
  Spare for no fear, I do you full permit:
  So I from this place do mean for to flit.

                                BOTH.

  With courageous hearts, O king, we will obey.

                                KING.

  Then come, my lords, let us depart away.

                          BOTH THE LORDS.

  With heavy hearts we will do all your grace doth say.
                                          [_Exeunt_ KING _and_ LORDS.

                              CRUELTY.

  Come, lady and queen, now are you in our handling:
  In faith, with you we will use no dandling:

                               MURDER.

  With all expedition, I Murder will take place,
  Though thou be a queen, ye be under my grace.

                               QUEEN.

  With patience I will you both obey.

                              CRUELTY.

  No more words, but go with us away.

                               QUEEN.

  Yet, before I die, some psalm to God let me sing.

                                BOTH.

  We be content to permit you that thing.

                               QUEEN.

  Farewell, you ladies of the court,
    With all your masking hue:
  I do forsake these broder’d guards,
    And all the fashions new,
  The court and all the courtly train,
    Wherein I had delight;
  I banished am from happy sport,
    And all by spiteful spite.
  Yet with a joyful heart to God
    A psalm I mean to sing,
  Forgiving all, and the king,
    Of each kind of thing.
                                                  [_Sing and Exeunt._

                   _Enter_ AMBIDEXTER _weeping_.

                            AMBIDEXTER.

  Ah, ah, ah, ah! I cannot choose but weep for the queen:
  Nothing but mourning now at the court there is seen.
  O, O, my heart, my heart; O, my bum will break:
  Very grief so torments me that scarce I can speak.
  Who could but weep for the loss of such a lady?
  That cannot I do, I swear by mine honesty.
  But, Lord! so the ladies mourn crying, alack!
  Nothing is worn now but only black;
  I believe all [the] cloth in Watling Street to make gowns would not
    serve:[248]
  If I make a lie, the devil let me starve!
  All ladies mourn both young and old;
  There is not one that weareth a point’s worth of gold.
  There is a sort for fear of the king do pray,
  That would have him dead, by the mass I dare say.
  What a king was he that hath used such tyranny?
  He was akin to Bishop Bonner,[249] I think verily;
  For both their delights was to shed blood,
  But never intended to do any good.
  Cambyses put a judge to death; that was a good deed;
  But to kill the young child was worse to proceed;
  To murder his brother, and then his own wife!
  So help me God and halidom, it is pity of his life,
  Hear ye? I will lay twenty thousand pound,
  That the king himself doth die by some wound;
  He hath shed so much blood, that his will be shed:
  If it come so to pass, in faith, then he is sped.

        _Enter the_ KING _without a gown, a sword thrust up
                      into his side bleeding_.

                               KING.

  Out alas? what shall I do? my life is finished;
  Wounded I am by sudden chance, my blood is minished:
  Gog’s heart, what means might I make my life to preserve?
  Is there nought to be my help? nor is there nought to serve?
  Out upon the court, and lords that there remain!
  To help my grief in this my case will none of them take pain?
  Who but I in such a wise his death’s wound could have got?
  As I on horse-back up did leap, my sword from scabbard shot,
  And run me thus into the side, as you right well may see.
  A marvell’s chance unfortunate, that in this wise should be.
  I feel myself a-dying now, of life bereft am I:
  And death hath caught me with his dart, for want of blood I spy.
  Thus gasping here on ground I lie, for nothing I do care;
  A just reward for my misdeeds my death doth plain declare.
                                      [_Here let him quake and stir._

                            AMBIDEXTER.

  How now, noble king? pluck up your heart;
  What, will you die, and from us depart?
  Speak to me, and you be alive:
  He cannot speak; but behold now with death he doth strive!
  Alas, good king: alas, he is gone!
  The devil take me, if for him I make any moan.
  I did prognosticate of his end, by the mass;
  Like as I did say, so is it come to pass.
  I will be gone; if I should be found here,
  That I should kill him it would appear:
  For fear with his death they do me charge,
  Farewell, my masters, I will go take barge:
  I mean to be packing, now is the tide:
  Farewell, my masters, I will no longer abide.
                                                  [_Exit_ AMBIDEXTER.

                        _Enter three_ LORDS.

                            FIRST LORD.

  Behold, my lords, it is even so,
    As he to us did tell;
  His grace is dead upon the ground,
    By dent of sword most fell.

                           SECOND LORD.

  As he in saddle would have leapt,
    His sword from sheath did go,
  Goring him up into the side;
    His life was ended so.

                            THIRD LORD.

  His blood so fast did issue out,
    That nought could him prolong:
  Yet before he yielded up the ghost,
    His heart was very strong.

                            FIRST LORD.

  A just reward for his misdeeds
    The God above hath wrought;
  For certainly the life he led
    Was to be counted nought.

                           SECOND LORD.

  Yet a princely burial he shall have,
    According his estate;
  And more of him here at his time
    We have not to dilate.

                            THIRD LORD.

  My lords, let us take him up,
    To carry him away.

                                BOTH.

  Content we are, with one accord,
    To do as you do say.
                                                       [_Exeunt all._

                             EPILOGUS.

  Right gentle audience, here have you perused
  The tragical history of this wicked king;
  According to our duty, we have not refused,
  But to our best intent express’d everything:
  We trust none is offended for this our doing.
  Our author craves likewise, if he have squared amiss,
  By gentle admonition to know where the fault is.

  His good will shall not be neglected to amend the same;
  Praying all to bear therefore with his simple deed,
  Until the time serve a better he may frame:
  Thus yielding you thanks, to end we decreed
  That you so gently have suffered us to proceed,
  In such patient wise as to hear and see:
  We can but thank you therefore, we can do no more, we.

  As duty binds us, for our noble queen let us pray,
  And for her honourable council, the truth that they may use,
  To practise justice, and defend her grace each day;
  To maintain God’s word they may not refuse,
  To correct all those, that would her grace and grace’s laws abuse;
  Beseeching God over us she may reign long,
  To be guided by truth, and defended from wrong.

     [228] [Like “King Darius’ doleful strain,” in allusion
     to the old interlude on that subject.]

     [229] [The play was licenced to John Allde in 1569-70.
     See Collier’s “Extracts,” i. 205. As that printer
     continued in business till 1584, and the earliest dated
     piece with the younger Allde’s name bears the same
     date, “Cambyses” may have been republished about 1585;
     but it does not seem to have been licenced.]

     [230] Shakespeare’s Clowns are genuine successors of
     the old Vice; and, as an editor of that poet has well
     observed, Punch still exhibits the entire character.

     [231] [One of them is printed by Collier.]

     [232] [Might not this incident have suggested to
     Shakespeare the leading one in “Measure for Measure”?]

     [233] [This incident was no doubt suggested by a
     well-known passage in the earlier play of “Thersites.”]

     [234] Here is evidently a line omitted, which it is
     impossible to supply by conjecture.

     [235] [Old copy, _the_.]

     [236] [Old copy, _of_.]

     [237] [Old copy, _the_.]

     [238] [Greediness or greed.]

     [239] [Old copy, _want_.]

     [240] [Old copy, _taste it still_.]

     [241] [Intention.]

     [242] [By our lady.]

     [243] [By my faith; and a little further on we have
     _bum troth_--by my troth.]

     [244] [Old copy, _do_.]

     [245] [Old copy, _in_.]

     [246] [Old copy, _beautie_.]

     [247] [Forget. A very rare word.]

     [248] [This reference to Watling Street as an early
     emporium for cloth is interesting, and does not seem to
     have been noticed.]

     [249] [Here Preston makes Ambidexter refer to Bonner as
     dead, an event which happened in 1569, and as this play
     was licenced in 1569-70, it must have been written
     immediately prior to its entry at Stationers’ Hall.]

                     THE MISFORTUNES OF ARTHUR.

                             _EDITION._

  _Certaine Devises and shewes presented to her Majestie by the
     Gentlemen of Grayes-Inne, at her Highnesse Court in Greenewich,
     the twenty eighth day of Februarie in the thirtieth yeare of her
     Majesties most happy Raigne. At London. Printed by Robert
     Robinson. 1587. 8o.
     Black-letter._

                       MR COLLIER’S PREFACE.

It appears that eight persons, members of the Society of Gray’s Inn,
were engaged in the production of “The Misfortunes of Arthur,” for the
entertainment of Queen Elizabeth, at Greenwich, on the 8th February
1587-8, viz., Thomas Hughes, the author of the whole body of the
tragedy; William Fulbecke, who wrote two speeches substituted on the
representation and appended to the old printed copy; Nicholas Trotte,
who furnished the introduction; Francis Flower, who penned choruses
for the first and second acts; Christopher Yelverton, Francis Bacon,
and John Lancaster, who devised the dumb-shows, then usually
accompanying such performances; and a person of the name of
Penruddock, who, assisted by Flower and Lancaster, “directed the
proceedings at court.”

Regarding Hughes and Trotte no information has survived. Fulbecke was
born in 1566; became, as we are told, an eminent writer on the law,
and in the year when this tragedy was brought out, published a work
called “Christian Ethics.” The “Maister Francis Bacon,” spoken of at
the conclusion of the piece, was, of course, no other than [the great]
Bacon; and it is a new feature in his biography, though not perhaps
very prominent nor important, that he was so nearly concerned in the
preparation of a play at court. In February 1587-8, he had just
commenced his twenty-eighth year. Christopher Yelverton, as early as
1566, had written the epilogue to Gascoigne’s “Jocasta,” and on the
present occasion was probably resorted to for his experience in such
undertakings. Regarding Flower, Lancaster, and Penruddock we have
nothing to communicate.

“The Misfortunes of Arthur” is a dramatic composition only known to
exist in the Garrick Collection.[250] Judging from internal evidence,
it seems to have been printed with unusual care under the
superintendence of the principal author. In the course of it, some
lines and words were cancelled, and those which were substituted were
pasted over the objectionable passages. In the notes we have given
both versions, and the whole is reprinted as nearly as possible in its
original shape. The mere rarity of this unique drama would not have
recommended it to our notice; but it is not likely that such a man as
Bacon would have lent his aid to the production of a piece which was
not intrinsically good, and unless we much mistake, there is a richer
and a nobler vein of poetry running through it than is to be found in
any previous work of the kind. The blank verse is generally free and
flowing, although now and then deformed by alliteration, and rendered
somewhat monotonous by the want of that variety of rhythm, which
Marlowe may be said to have introduced, and which Shakespeare scarcely
exceeded.

Most of the characters, and particularly those of Arthur and Mordred,
are drawn with distinctness and vigour: the fiery and reckless
ambition of the son is excellently contrasted with the cool
determination and natural affection of the father. As an illustration
of the former we may refer to many passages, but especially to several
in the third scene of the second act; while the character and
disposition of the latter are depicted in a masterly manner both
before and after the final battle. This catastrophe, as far as relates
to the death of Mordred, is mentioned by Dante in canto xxxii. of his
“Inferno”--

     “Non quelli a cui fu rotto il petto e l’ombra.
      Con esso un colpo per la man d’Artu.”

The substance of the story is to be found in the “Morte Arthur.” The
action is one, but the unities of time and place are disregarded; and
although the tragedy in many respects is conducted upon the plan of
the ancients, there are in it evident approaches to the irregularity
of our romantic drama. It forms a sort of connecting link between such
pieces of unimpassioned formality as “Ferrex and Porrex,” and
rule-rejecting historical plays, as Shakespeare found them and left
them.

                     THE NAMES OF THE SPEAKERS.

  GORLOIS, _Duke of Cornwall’s Ghost_.
  GUENEVERA, _the Queen_.
  FRONIA, _a Lady of her train_.
  ANGHARAD, _Sister to the Queen_.
  MORDRED, _the Usurper_.
  CONAN, _a faithful Councillor_.
  _Nuntius of Arthur’s landing_.
  _The Herald from Arthur_.
  GAWIN, _King of Albany_.
  GILLA, _a British Earl_.
  GILLAMOR, _King of Ireland_.
  CHELDRICH, _Duke of Saxony_.
  _The Lord of the Picts._
  ARTHUR, _King of Great Britain_.
  CADOR, _Duke of Cornwall_.
  HOEL, _King of Little Britain_.
  _The Herald from Mordred_.
  ASCHILLUS, _King of Denmark_.
  _The King of Norway_.
  _A number of Soldiers_.
  _Nuntius of the last battle_.
  GILDAS, _a nobleman of Britain_.

       CHORUS.

                         THE INTRODUCTION.

An introduction, penned by Nicholas Trotte, Gentleman, one of the
Society of Gray’s Inn, which was pronounced in manner following:--viz.,
Three Muses came on the stage apparelled accordingly, bringing five
Gentlemen Students with them, attired in their usual garments, whom
one of the Muses presented to Her Majesty as captives. The cause
whereof she delivered by speech as followeth:--

  Of conquest (gracious queen) the signs and fruits,
  Achieved ’gainst such as wrongfully withheld
  The service by choice wits to Muses due,
  In humblest wise these captives we present.
  And lest your highness might suspect the gift,
  As spoil of war that justice might impeach,
  Hear and discern how just our quarrel was,
  Avouched (as you see) by good success.
  A dame there is, whom men Astrœa term,
  She that pronounceth oracles of laws,
  Who to prepare fit servants for her train,
  As by commission, takes up flow’ring wits,
  Whom first she schooleth to forget and scorn
  The noble skills of language and of arts,
  The wisdom which discourse of stories teach:
  The ornaments which various knowledge yields.
  But poesy she hath in most disdain,
  And marshals it next Folly’s scorned place.
  Then, when she hath these worthy prints defac’d
  Out of the minds that can endure her hand.
  What doth she then supply instead of these?
  Forsooth, some old reports of altered laws,
  Clamours of courts, and cavils upon words,
  Grounds without ground, supported by conceit,
  And reasons of more subtlety than sense.
  What shall I say of moot points strange, and doubts
  Still argued, but never yet agreed?
  And she that doth deride the poet’s law,
  Because he must his words in order place,
  Forgets her forms of pleading, more precise--
  More bound to words than is the poet’s lore:
  And for these fine conceits she fitly chose
  A tongue that barbarism itself doth use.
  We, noting all these wrongs, did long expect
  Their hard condition would have made them wise,
  To offer us their service, plac’d so ill;
  But finding them addicted to their choice,
  And specially desirous to present
  Your Majesty with fruits of province new,
  Now did resolve to double force and skill,
  And found and us’d the vantage of the time,
  Surpris’d their fort, and took them captives all.
  So now submiss, as to their state belongs,
  They gladly yield their homage long withdrawn,
  And Poetry, which they did most contemn,
  They glory now her favours for to wear.
  My sisters laugh’d to see them take the pen,
  And lose their wits all in unwonted walks:
  But to your highness that delight we leave,
  To see these poets new their style advance.
  Such as they are, or nought or little worth,
  Deign to accept, and therewith we beseech,
  That novelty give price to worthless things.

          _Unto this speech one of the Gentlemen answered
                           as followeth:_

  Good ladies, unacquaint with cunning reach,
  And eas’ly led to glory in your pow’r,
  Hear now abash’d our late dissembled minds.
  Nor now the first time, as yourselves best know,
  Ye Muses sought our service to command:
  Oft have ye wandered from Parnassus Hill,
  And showed yourselves with sweet and tempting grace,
  But yet return’d, your train increas’d with few.
  This resolution doth continue still:
  Unto Astrea’s name we honour bear,
  Whose sound perfections we do more admire
  Than all the vaunted store of Muses’ gifts,
  Let this be one (which last you put in ure
  In well depraving that deserveth praise)
  No eloquence, disguising reason’s shape,
  Nor poetry, each vain affection’s nurse,
  No various history, that doth lead the mind
  Abroad to ancient tales from instant use,
  Nor these, nor other mo, too long to note,
  Can win Astrea’s servants to remove
  Their service once devote to better things.
  They, with attentive minds and serious wits,
  Revolve records of deep judicial acts;
  They weigh with steady and indifferent hand
  Each word of law, each circumstance of right:
  They hold the grounds which time and use hath sooth’d,[251]
  Though shallow sense conceive them as conceits--
  Presumptuous sense, whose ignorance dare judge
  Of things remov’d by reason from her reach.
  One doubt, in moots by argument increas’d,
  Clears many doubts experience doth object.
  The language she first chose, and still retains,
  Exhibits naked truth in aptest terms.
  Our industry maintaineth unimpeach’d:
  Prerogative of prince, respect to peers,
  The Commons’ liberty and each man’s right;
  Suppresseth mutin force and practice fraud,
  Things that for worth our studious care deserve:
  Yet never did we banish nor reject
  Those ornaments of knowledge nor of tongues:
  That slander envious ignorance did raise.
  With Muses still we intercourse allow,
  T’enrich our state with all their foreign freight;
  But never homage nor acknowledgment,
  Such as of subjects allegiance doth require.
  Now hear the cause of your late conquest won.
  We had discovered your intent to be
  (And, sure, ye ladies are not secret all;
  Speech and not silence is the Muse’s grace)
  We well perceiv’d (I say) your mind to be
  T’ employ such prisoners, as themselves did yield,
  To serve a Queen, for whom her purest gold
  Nature refin’d, that she might therein set
  Both private and imperial virtues all.
  Thus (Sovereign Lady of our laws and us)
  Zeal may transform us into any shape.
  We, which with trembling hand the pen did guide,
  Never well pleas’d, all for desire to please;
  For still your rare perfections did occur,
  Which are admir’d of Muses and of men.
  O, with how steady hand and heart assur’d,
  Should we take up the warlike lance or sword,
  With mind resolv’d to spend our loyal blood
  Your least command with speed to execute!
  O, that before our time the fleeting ship
  Ne’er wandered had in watery wilderness,
  That we might first that venture undertake
  In strange attempt t’ approve our loyal hearts!
  Be it soldiers, seamen, poets, or what else,
  In service once enjoin’d, to ready minds
  Our want of use should our devoir increase.
  Now since instead of art we bring but zeal,
  Instead of praise we humbly pardon crave.
  The matter which we purpose to present,
  Since straights of time our liberty controls,
  In tragic notes the plagues of vice recounts.
  How suits a tragedy for such a time?
  Thus--for that since your sacred Majesty
  In gracious hands the regal sceptre held,
  All tragedies are fled from State to stage.

                                                     NICHOLAS TROTTE.

  The misfortunes of Arthur (Uther Pendragon’s son) reduced into
    tragical notes by Thomas Hughes, one of the society of Gray’s Inn,
    and here set down as it passed from under his hands, and as it was
    presented, excepting certain words and lines, where some of the
    actors either helped their memories by brief omission, or fitted
    their acting by some alteration; with a note in the end of such
    speeches as were penned by others, in lieu of some of these
    hereafter following.

                   _The Argument of the Tragedy._

At a banquet made by Uther Pendragon for the solemnising of his
conquest against the Saxons, he fell enamoured of Igerna, wife to
Gorlois, Duke of Cornwall who, perceiving the king’s passion, departed
with his wife and prepared wars at Cornwall, where also, in a
stronghold beyond him, he placed her. Then the king levied an army to
suppress him, but waxing impatient of his desire to Igerna,
transformed himself, by Merlin his cunning, into the likeness of
Gorlois, and after his acceptance with Igerna he returned to his
siege, where he slew Gorlois. Igerna was delivered of Arthur and Anne,
twins of the same birth. Uther Pendragon, fifteen years after,
pursuing the Saxons, was by them poisoned. Arthur delighted in his
sister Anne, who made him father of Mordred. Seventeen years after,
Lucius Tiberius of Rome demanded a tribute, due by conquest of Cæsar.
Arthur gathered his powers of thirteen kings besides his own, and
leaving his queen Guenevera in the tuition of Mordred, to whom
likewise he committed the kingdom in his absence, arrived at France
where, after nine years’ wars, he sent the slain body of Tiberius unto
Rome for the tribute. During this absence, Mordred grew ambitious, for
th’ effecting whereof he made love to Guenevera, who gave ear unto
him. Then by th’ assistance of Gilla, a British lord, he usurped, and
for maintenance entertained with large promises the Saxons, Irish,
Picts, and Normans. Guenevera hearing that Arthur was already embarked
for return, through despair purposing diversely, sometimes to kill her
husband, sometimes to kill herself, at last resolved to enter into
religion. Arthur at his landing was resisted on the strands of Dover,
where he put Mordred to flight. The last field was fought at Cornwall
where, after the death of one hundred and twenty thousand, saving on
either side twenty, Mordred received his death, and Arthur his deadly
wound.

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

Sounding the music, there rose three furies from under the stage,
apparelled accordingly with snakes and flames about their black hair
and garments. The first with a snake in the right hand, and a cup of
wine, with a snake athwart the cup, in the left hand. The second with
a firebrand in the right hand, and a Cupid in the left. The third with
a whip in the right hand and a Pegasus in the left. While they went
masking about the stage, there came from another place three nuns,
which walked by themselves. Then after a full sight given to the
beholders, they all parted, the furies to Mordred’s house, the nuns to
the cloister. By the first fury with the snake and cup was signified
the banquet of Uther Pendragon, and afterward his death, which ensued
by the poisoned cup. The second fury, with her firebrand and Cupid,
represented Uther’s unlawful heat and love conceived at the banquet,
which never ceased in his posterity. By the third, with her whip and
Pegasus, was prefigured the cruelty and ambition which thence ensued
and continued to th’ effecting of this tragedy. By the nuns was
signified the remorse and despair of Guenevera that, wanting other
hope, took a nunnery for her refuge. After their departure, the four
which represented the Chorus took their places.

                  _The Argument of the First Act._

1. In the first scene the spirit of Gorlois, Duke of Cornwall, the man
   first and most wronged in this history, being despoil’d both of
   wife, dukedom, and life, craveth revenge for these injuries,
   denouncing the whole misfortune ensuing.

2. In the second scene Guenevera, hearing that Arthur was on the seas
   returning desperately, menaceth his death, from which intent she is
   dissuaded by Fronia, a lady of her court, and privy to her secrets.

3. In the third scene Guenevera perplexedly mindeth her own death,
   whence being dissuaded by her sister, she resolveth to enter into
   religion.

4. In the fourth scene Mordred goeth about to persuade Guenevera to
   persist in her love, but misseth thereof; and then is exhorted by
   Conan (a nobleman of Britain) to reconcile himself to his father at
   his coming, but refuseth so to do, and resolveth to keep him from
   landing by battle.

                     THE MISFORTUNES OF ARTHUR.

                   THE FIRST ACT AND FIRST SCENE.

                           GORLOIS.[252]

  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.

  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._

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