And fortune, pleas’d with Arthur’s moderate fear,
Returns more full, and friendlier than her wont.
For when he saw the powers of fates oppos’d,
And that the dreadful hour was hastened on,
Perplexed much in mind at length resolves,
That fear is covered best by daring most.
Then forth he pitch’d: the Saxon duke withstood,
Whom with one stroke he headless sent to hell.
Not far from thence he spied the Irish king,
Whose life he took as price of broken truce.
Then Cador forward press’d, and haply met
The traitor Gilla, worker of these wars,
Of whom by death he took his due revenge.
The remnant then of both the camps concur,
They Britons all, or most, few foreigns left:
These wage the wars and hence the deaths ensue:
Nor t’ one nor t’ other side that can destroy
Her foes so fast, as ’tis itself destroyed.
The brethren broach their blood; the sire, the son’s,
The son again would prove by too much wrath,
That he, whom thus he slew, was not his sire.
No blood nor kin can ’suage their ireful moods:
No foreign foe they seek, nor care to find:
The Briton’s blood is sought on every side.
A vain discourse it were to paint at large
The several fates and foils of either side;
To tell what groans and sighs the parting ghosts
Sent forth; who dying bare the fellest breast;
Who changed cheer at any Briton’s fall;
Who oft’nest stroke; who best bestow’d his blade;
Who vent’red most; who stood, who fell, who fail’d.
Th’ effect declares it all: thus far the field.
Of both these hosts, so huge and main at first,
There were not left on either side a score,
For son and sire to win and lose the realm.
The which when Mordred saw, and that his sire
’Gainst foes and fates themselves would win the field,
He sigh’d and ’twixt despair and rage he cried:
Here (Arthur), here, and hence the conquest comes:
Whiles Mordred lives, the crown is yet unwon!
Hereat the prince of prowess, much amaz’d,
With thrilling tears and count’nance cast on ground,
Did groaning fetch a deep and earnful sigh.
Anon, they fierce encountering both concurr’d
With grisly looks and faces like their fates;
But dispar minds and inward moods unlike.
The sire with mind to safeguard both, or t’ one;
The son to spoil the t’ one or hazard both.
No fear nor fellness fail’d on either side:
The wager lay on both their lives and bloods.
At length, when Mordred spied his force to faint,
And felt himself oppress’d with Arthur’s strength,
(O hapless lad, a match unmeet for him)
He loathes to live in that afflicted state,
And, valiant with a forced virtue, longs
To die the death: in which perplexed mind,
With grenning teeth and crabbed looks he cries,
I cannot win, yet will I not be won.
What! should we shun our fates, or play with Mars,
Or thus defraud the wars of both our bloods?
Whereto do we reserve ourselves, or why
Be we not sought ere this amongst the dead?
So many thousands murther’d in our cause,
Must we survive, and neither win nor lose?
The fates, that will not smile on either side
May frown on both. So saying, forth he flings,
And desperate runs on point of Arthur’s sword!
(A sword, alas, prepar’d for no such use),
Whereon engor’d he glides till, near approach’d,
With dying hand he hews his father’s head:
So through his own annoy he ’nnoys his liege,
And gains by death access to daunt his sire.
There Mordred fell, but like a prince he fell;
And as a branch of great Pendragon’s graft
His life breathes out: his eyes forsake the sun,
And fatal clouds infer a lasting ’clipse.
There Arthur staggering scant sustain’d himself;
There Cador found a deep and deadly wound;
There ceas’d the wars, and there was Britain lost!
There lay the chosen youths of Mars, there lay
The peerless knights, Bellona’s bravest train,
There lay the mirrors rare of martial praise,
There lay the hope and branch of Brute suppress’d:
There fortune laid the prime of Britain’s pride,
There laid her pomp, all topsy-turvy turn’d.
[_Exit._
THE THIRD SCENE.
GILDAS, CONAN.
GILDAS. Come, cruel griefs, spare not to stretch our strengths,
Whiles baleful breasts invite our thumping fists.
Let every sign that mournful passions work,
Express what piteous plights our minds amaze.
This day supplants what no day can supply;
These hands have wrought those wastes, that never age,
Nor all the brood of Brute shall e’er repair:
That future men may joy the surer rest,
These wars prevent their birth and nip their spring.
What nations erst the former age subdu’d
With hourly toils to Britain’s yoke, this day
Hath set at large, and backwards turn’d the fates.
Henceforth the Kerns may safely tread their bogs;
The Scots may now their inroads old renew,
The Saxons well may vow their former claims,
And Danes without their danger drive us out.
These wars found not th’ effect of wonted wars,
Nor doth their weight the like impression work:
There several fates annoy’d but several men;
Here all the realm and people find one fate:
What there did reach but to a soldier’s death,
Contains the death of all a nation here.
These blades have given this isle a greater wound
Than time can heal--the fruit of civil wars:
A kingdom’s hand hath gor’d a kingdom’s heart.
CONAN. When fame shall blaze these acts in latter years,
And time to come, so many ages hence,
Shall efts report our toils and British pains;
Or when perhaps our children’s children read
Our woful wars display’d with skilful pen,
They’ll think they hear some sounds of future facts,
And not the ruins old of pomp long past;
’Twill move their minds to rath, and frame afresh
New hopes and fears, and vows, and many a wish,
And Arthur’s cause shall still be favour’d most.
He was the joy and hope, and hap, of all,
The realm’s defence, the sole delay of fates;
He was our wall and fort: twice thirteen years
His shoulders did the Briton state support.
Whiles yet he reign’d, no foreign foes prevail’d,
Nor once could hope to bind the Briton bounds;
But still both far and near were forc’d to fly;
They thrall to us, we to ourselves were free.
But now, and henceforth aye, adieu that hope,
Adieu that pomp, that freedom, rule and all!
Let Saxons now, let Normans, Danes and Scots
Enjoy our meadows, fields, and pleasant plains!
Come, let us fly to mountains, cliffs, and rocks.
A nation hurt, and ne’er in case to heal!
Henceforth, the weight of fates thus fallen aside,
We rest secure from fear of greater foil:
Our leisure serves to think on former times,
And know what erst we were, who now are thus.
[_Exeunt._
CHORUS.
1.
O Britain’s prosperous state, were heavenly powers
But half so willing to preserve thy peace,
As they are prone to plague thee for thy wars!
But thus, O gods, yea, thus it likes you still,
When you decree to turn and touse the world,
To make our errors cause of your decrees.
We fretting fume, and burning wax right wood;
We cry for swords and harmful harness crave;
We rashly rave, whiles from our present rage
You frame a cause of long-foredeemed doom.
2.
When Britain so desired her own decay,
That even her native brood would root her up,
Seem’d it so huge a work, O heavens, for you
To tumble down and quite subvert her state,
Unless so many nations came in aid?
What thirst of spoil, O fates! In civil wars
Were you afraid to faint for want of blood?
But yet, O wretched state in Britons fond,
What needed they to stoop to Mordred’s yoke,
Or fear the man themselves so fearful made?
Had they but link’d like friends in Arthur’s bands,
And join’d their force against the foreign foes,
These wars and civil sins had soon surceas’d,
And Mordred, reft of rule, had fear’d his sire.
3.
Would gods these wars had drawn no other blood,
Than such as sprang from breasts of foreign foes!
So that the fountain, fed with changeless course,
Had found no nearer vents for dearer juice.
Or if the fates so thirst for British blood,
And long so deeply for our last decay,
O, that the rest were spar’d and safe reserv’d,
Both Saxons, Danes, and Normans most of all!
Hereof, when civil wars have worn us out,
Must Britain stand, a borrow’d blood for Brute.
4.
When prosperous haps and long-continuing bliss
Have pass’d the ripeness of their budding growth,
They fall and foulter like the mellow fruit,
Surcharg’d with burden of their own excess:
So fortune, wearied with our often wars,
Is forc’d to faint and leave us to our fates.
If men have minds presaging ought their harms,
If ever heavy heart foreween her woe,
What Briton lives so far remov’d from home,
In any air or pole, or coast abroad,
But that even now, through nature’s sole instinct,
He feels the fatal sword imbrue his breast,
Wherewith his native soil for aye is slain!
What hopes and haps lie wasted in these wars!
Who knows the foils he suffered in these fields?
_The Argument of the Fifth Act._
1. In the first scene Arthur and Cador returned deadly wounded, and
bewailed the misfortunes of themselves and their country, and are
likewise bewailed of the Chorus.
2. In the second scene the ghost of Gorlois returneth rejoicing at his
revenge, and wishing ever after a happier fate unto Britain; which
done, he descendeth where he first rose.
_The Argument and Manner of the Fifth and Last Dumb Show._
Sounding the music, four gentlemen all in black, half-armed,
half-unarmed, with black scarfs overthwart their shoulders, should
come upon the stage. The first bearing aloft in the one hand, on the
truncheon of a spear, an helmet, an arming sword, a gauntlet, &c.,
representing the trophæa: in the other hand a target, depicted with a
man’s heart sore-wounded, and the blood gushing out, crowned with a
crown imperial and a laurel garland; thus written in the top: _En
totum quod superest_--signifying the King of Norway, which spent
himself and all his power for Arthur, and of whom there was left
nothing but his heart to enjoy the conquest that ensued. The second
bearing, in the one hand, a silver vessel full of gold, pearls, and
other jewels, representing the spolia: in the other hand a target,
with an elephant and dragon thereon fiercely combating; the dragon
under the elephant, and sucking, by his extreme heat, the blood from
him, is crushed in pieces with the fall of the elephant, so as both
die at last; this written above: _Victor an victus?_ representing the
King of Denmark, who fell through Mordred’s wound, having first
with his soldiers destroyed the most of Mordred’s army. The third
bearing, in the one hand, a Pyramis with a laurel wreath about it,
representing Victory; in the other hand a target with this device--a
man sleeping, a snake drawing near to sting him, a lizard, preventing
the snake by fight: the lizard, being deadly wounded, awaketh the man
who, seeing the lizard dying, pursues the snake and kills it; this
written above: _Tibi morimur_, signifying Gawin, king of Albany, slain
in Arthur’s defence by Mordred, whom Arthur afterwards slew. The
fourth bearing, in the one hand, a broken pillar, at the top thereof
the crown and sceptre of the vanquished king, both broken asunder,
representing the conquest over usurpation; in the other hand a target,
with two cocks painted thereon, the one lying dead, the other with his
wings broken, his eyes pecked out, and the blood everywhere gushing
forth to the ground; he standing upon the dead cock and crowing over
him, with this emblem in the top: _Qua vici, perdidi_, signifying
Cador deadly wounded by Gilla, whom he slew. After these followed a
king languishing, in complete harness black, bruised and battered unto
him, besprinkled with blood; on his head a laurel garland, leaning on
the shoulders of two heralds in mourning gowns and hoods; the one in
Mars his coat of arms, the other in Arthur’s, presenting Arthur
victorious, but yet deadly wounded. There followed a page with a
target, whereon was portraited a pelican pecking her blood out of her
breast to feed her young ones, through which wound she dieth; this
written in the top: _Qua fovi, perii_, signifying Arthur’s too much
indulgence of Mordred, the cause of his death. All this represented
the dismayed and unfortunate victory of Arthur, which is the matter of
the Act ensuing.
THE FIFTH ACT AND FIRST SCENE.
ARTHUR, CADOR, CHORUS.
ARTHUR. Come, Cador, as our friendship was most firm
Throughout our age, so now let’s link as fast.
Thus did we live in wars, thus let us die
In peace, and arm in arm partake our fates.
Our wounds, our grief, our wish, our hap alike,
Our end so near: all crave each other’s help.
CADOR. O king, behold the fruit of all our fame!
Lo, here our pomp, consumed with ourselves:
What all our age with all our wars had won,
Lo, here one day hath lost it all at once!
Well, so it likes the heavens: thus fortune gibes;
She hoisteth up to hurl the deeper down.
FIRST CHORUS. O sacred prince! what sight is this we see?
Why have the fates reserved us to these woes?
Our only hope, the stay of all our realm,
The pillar of our state, thus sore oppress’d!
O, would the gods had favour’d us so much,
That as we lived partakers of your pains,
And likewise joy’d the fruit of your exploits,
So having thus bereft our sovereign’s bliss,
They had with more indifferent doom conjoin’d
The subjects’ both and sovereign’s bane in one!
It now (alas) engendereth double grief,
To rue your want and to bewail our woes.
ARTHUR. Rue not, my Britons, what my rage hath wrought,
But blame your king, that thus hath rent your realm.
My meanless moods have made the fates thus fell,
And too much anger wrought in me too much:
For had impatient ire endured abuse,
And yielded where resistance threat’ned spoil,
I mought have lived in foreign coasts unfoil’d,
And six score thousand men had been unmoan’d!
But wrong, incensing wrath to take revenge,
Preferred chance before a better choice.
SECOND CHORUS. ’Twas Mordred’s wrong and too unjust deserts
That justly mov’d your highness to such wrath:
Your claim requir’d no less than those attempts:
Your cause right good was prais’d and pray’d for most.
ARTHUR. I claim’d my crown; the cause of claim was good,
The means to claim it in such sort was bad.
Yea, rather than my realm and native soil
Should wounded fall, thus bruised with these wars,
I should have left both realm and right, and all,
Or dur’d the death ordain’d by Mordred’s oath.
CADOR. And yet, so far as Mars could bide a mean,
You hateless sought the safeguard of them all:
Whereto the better cause or badder chance
Did draw, you still inclin’d; preferring oft
The weaker side, sometimes for love, sometimes
For right (as fortune sway’d), your son, yourself.
So pity spar’d what reason sought to spoil,
Till all at length with equal spoil was spent.
THIRD CHORUS. Would gods your mind had felt no such remorse,
And that your foes had no such favour found!
So might your friends have had far friendlier fates,
If rebels for their due deserts had died.
The wicked’s death is safety to the just;
To spare the traitors was to spoil the true:
Of force he hurts the good that helps the bad.
In that you sought your country’s gain, ’twas well:
In that you shunned not her loss, ’twas hard.
Good is the friend that seeks to do us good;
A mighty friend that doth prevent our harms.
ARTHUR. Well, so it was; it cannot be redress’d;
The greater is my grief that sees it so.
My life (I feel) doth fade, and sorrows flow,
The rather that my name is thus extinct;
In this respect, so Mordred did succeed,
O that myself had fall’n and Mordred liv’d!
That having conquer’d all my foes but him,
I mought have left you him, that conquer’d me.
O heavy, wretched lot! to be the last
That falls! to view the burial of my realm!
Where each man else hath felt his several fate,
I only pine, oppress’d with all their fates!
FOURTH CHORUS. Although your highness do sustain such grief,
As needs enforceth all your realm to rue,
Yet since such ruth affordeth no relief,
Let due discretion ’suage each cureless sore,
And bear the harms that run without redress.
The loss is ours, that lose so rare a prince:
You only win, that see your foe here foil’d.
[_The breathless body of_ MORDRED _in armour,
as he fell, is brought upon the stage._
ARTHUR. A causeless foe. When wars did call me hence,
He was in years but young, in wit too old.
As virtue shineth most in comeliest wights,
When inward gifts are deck’d with outward grace,
So did his wit and feature feed that hope,
Which falsely train’d me to this woful hap.
His mind transformed thus, I cannot choose
But long to see what change his face sustains.
My blood and kindred, doubled in his birth,
Inspires a mix’d and twice-descending love,
Which drives my dying veins to wish his view.
Unhelm his luckless head, set bare his face,
That face which erst pleas’d me and mine too much.
FIRST CHORUS. See (worthiest king) the hope of all your realm,
Had not his lust to rule prevented all.
ARTHUR. I see (alas), I see (hide, hide again:
O, spare mine eyes!) a witness of my crimes;
A fearful vision of my former guilt;
A dreadful horror of a future doom,
A present gall of mind. O happy they,
Whose spotless lives attain a dreadless death!
And thou, O hapless boy! O spite of fates!
(What mought I term thee--nephew, son, or both?)
Alas! how happy should we both have been,
If no ambitious thought had vex’d thy head,
Nor thou thus striv’d to reave thy father’s rule,
But stay’d thy time, and not forestall’d us both!
CADOR. The hot-spurr’d youth, that forc’d the forward steeds,
Whiles needs he would his father’s chariot guide,
Neglecting what his sire had said in charge:
The fires which first he flung about the poles,
Himself at last, most woful wretch, inflam’d.
So too much love to hover in the heavens
Made him to pay the price of rash attempts.
ARTHUR. What ruth (ah), rent the woful father’s heart,
That saw himself thus made a sonless sire!
Well, since both heavens and hell conspir’d in one
To make our ends a mirror to the world,
Both of incestuous life and wicked birth,
Would gods the fates, that link’d our faults alike,
Had also fram’d our minds of friendlier moulds!
That as our lineage had approach’d too near,
So our affections had not swerv’d too far.
Then mought, I[’ve] liv’d t’ enlarge the Britons’ praise
In rearing efts the first triumphant Troy,
And after thou, succeeding mine attempts,
Have spent thy courage in a juster cause.
But ’twould not be: ambition grew too great;
We could not join our minds--our fates we join’d,
And through thy blood a way was made to mine.
SECOND CHORUS. And must we needs (O worthiest peers) forego
By this untimely fate our greatest hope?
That in your ripest years and likeliest time
Your chiefest force should on this sudden fall?
[THIRD CHORUS.] See, see our idle hopes, our brittle trust,
[FOURTH CHORUS.] Our vain desires, our over-fickle state
Which, though a while they sail on quiet seas,
Yet sink in surge, ere they arrive to road.
O woful wars! O Mordred’s cursed pride,
That thus hath wrought both king and kingdom’s woe!
CADOR. Let plaints and mournings pass; set moans apart.
They made much of themselves, yea, too--too much;
They lov’d to live that, seeing all their realm
Thus topsy-turvy turn, would grudge to die.
ARTHUR. Yea, sure: since thus (O fates) your censure seems,
That free from force of foreign foes, there rests
That Mordred reap the glory of our deaths,
B’ it so: drive on your doom, work your decree:
We fearless bide what bane soe’er you bid.
And though our ends, thus hastened to your hests,
Abruptly break the course of great attempts,
Yet go we not inglorious to the ground:
Set wish apart, we have perform’d enough.
The Irish king and nation wild we tam’d;
The Scots and Picts, and Orcade Isles, we wan;
The Danes and Goths, and Friesland men, with all
The Isles inserted near those seas; and next
The German king and Saxons we subdu’d.
Not France that could prevail against our force,
Nor lastly Rome, that rues her pride suppress’d.
Each foreign power is parcel of our praise:
No titles want to make our foes afraid.
This only now I crave (O fortune! erst
My faithful friend): let it be soon forgot,
Nor long in mind nor mouth, where Arthur fell:
Yea, though I conqueror die, and full of fame,
Yet let my death and parture rest obscure.
No grave I need (O fates!) nor burial-rights,
Nor stately hearse, nor tomb with haughty top;
But let my carcase lurk; yea, let my death
Be aye unknowen, so that in every coast
I still be fear’d, and look’d for every hour.
[_Exeunt_ ARTHUR _and_ CADOR.
CHORUS.
1.
Lo, here the end that fortune sends at last
To him, whom first she heav’d to highest hap!
The flattering look, wherewith he long was led;
The smiling fates, that oft had fed his fame,
The many wars and conquests which he gain’d,
Are dash’d at once: one day infers that foil,
Whereof so many years of yore were free.
2.
O willing world to magnify man’s state!
O most unwilling to maintain the same!
Of all misfortunes and unhappy fates
Th’ unhappiest seems to have been happy once.[282]
’Twas Arthur sole, that never found his joys
Disturb’d with woe, nor woes reliev’d with joy.
In prosperous state all heavenly pow’rs aspir’d;
Now, made a wretch, not one that spares his spoil!
3.
Yea, fortune’s self in this afflicted case
Exacts a pain for long-continued pomp.
She urgeth now the bliss of wonted weal,
And bears him down with weight of former fame.
His praises past be present shame. O fickle trust,
Whiles fortune chops and changeth every chance,
What certain bliss can we enjoy alive,
Unless, whiles yet our bliss endures, we die?
4.
Yea, since before his last and utmost gasp,
None can be deem’d a happy man or bless’d,
Who dares commit himself to prosperous fates,
Whose death prepar’d attends not hard at hand:
That sithence death must once determine all,
His life may sooner fly, than fortune flit.
THE SECOND SCENE.
GORLOIS.
GORLOIS. Now, Gorlois, ’suage thyself. Pride hath his pay,
Murther his price, adult’ry his desert,
Treason his meed, disloyalty his doom,
Wrong hath his wreak, and guilt his guerdon bears!
Not one abuse erst offered by thy foes,
But, since most sternly punish’d, is now purg’d.
Where thou didst fall, ev’n on the self-same soil,
Pendragon, Arthur, Mordred, and their stock
Found all their foils: not one hath ’scaped revenge;
Their line from first to last quite razed out!
Now rest content, and work no further plagues:
Let future age be free from Gorlois’ ghost:
Let Britain henceforth bathe in endless weal.
Let Virgo come from heaven, the glorious star,
The Zodiac’s joy, the planets’ chief delight,
The hope of all the year, the ease of skies,
The air’s relief, the comfort of the earth!
That virtuous Virgo, born for Britain’s bliss;
That peerless branch of Brute; that sweet remain
Of Priam’s state; that hope of springing Troy,
Which, time to come and many ages hence,
Shall of all wars compound eternal peace.
Let her reduce the golden age again,
Religion, ease, and wealth of former world.
Yea, let that Virgo come, and Saturn’s reign,[283]
And years, oft ten times told, expir’d in peace.
A rule that else no realm shall ever find,
A rule most rare, unheard, unseen, unread;
The sole example that the world affords.
That (Britain), that renowm, yea, that is thine.
B’ it so: my wrath is wrought. Ye furies black
And ugly shapes, that howl in holes beneath:
Thou Orcus dark, and deep Avernus nook,
With duskish dens out-gnawn in gulfs below,
Receive your ghastly charge, Duke Gorlois’ ghost!
Make room! I gladly, thus reveng’d, return!
And though your pain surpass, I greet them tho!
He hates each other heaven, that haunteth hell.
[_Descendit._
EPILOGUS.
See here by this the tickle trust of time:
The false affiance of each mortal force;
The wavering weight of fates: the fickle trace,
That fortune trips; the many mocks of life;
The cheerless change, the easeless brunts and broils,
That man abides, the restless race he runs.
But most of all, see here the peerless pains:
The lasting pangs, the stintless griefs, the tears:
The sighs, the groans, the fears, the hopes, the hates:
The thoughts and cares, that kingly pomp imparts.
What follies, then, bewitch th’ ambitious minds,
That thirst for sceptre’s pomp, the well of woes!
Whereof (alas!) should wretched man be proud,
Whose first conception is but sin, whose birth
But pain, whose life but toil, and needs must die?
See here the store of great Pendragon’s brood,
The t’one quite dead, the t’other hastening on;
As men, the son but green, the sire but ripe,
Yet both forestall’d, ere half their race were run!
As kings, the mightiest monarchs of this age,
Yet both suppressed and vanquished by themselves.
Such is the brittle breath of mortal man,
Whiles human nature works her daily wracks:
Such be the crazed crests of glorious crowns,
Whiles worldly powers like sudden puffs do pass.
And yet for one that goes, another comes;
Some born, some dead: so still the store endures.
So that both fates and common care provide,
That men must needs be born, and some must rule.
Wherefore, ye peers and lordings, lift aloft,
And whosoe’er in thrones that judge your thralls,
Let not your sovereignty heave you too high,
Nor their subjection press them down too low.
It is not pride that can augment your power,
Nor lowly looks that long can keep them safe.
The fates have found a way whereby, ere long,
The proud must leave their hope, the meek their fear.
Whoe’er received such favour from above,
That could assure one day unto himself?
Him whom the morning found both stout and strong,
The evening left all grovelling on the ground.
This breath and heat, wherewith man’s life is fed,
Is but a flash or flame, that shines a while,
And once extinct is, as it ne’er had been.
Corruption hourly frets the body’s frame;
Youth tends to age, and age to death by kind.
Short is the race, prefixed is the end;
Swift is the time, wherein man’s life doth run:
But by his deeds t’extend renowm and fame,
That only virtue works, which never fades.
FINIS.
Thomas Hughes.
_Sat citò, si sat benè: utcunque,
Quoad non dat spes, dat optio._
Hereafter follow such
speeches as were penned by others, and pronounced
instead of some of the former speeches
penned by Thomas Hughes.
A speech penned by William
Fulbecke, gentleman, one of the society of Gray’s
Inn, and pronounced instead of Gorlois
his first speech penned by Thomas
Hughes, and set down in the first Scene
of the first Act.