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.