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.