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?