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.