ARTHUR. Well, what avails to linger in this life, Which fortune but reserves for greater grief? This breath draws on but matter of mishap: Death only frees the guiltless from annoys. Who so hath felt the force of greedy fates, And ’dur’d the last decree of grisly death, Shall never yield his captive arms to chains, Nor drawn in triumph deck the victor’s pomp. HOWELL. What mean these words? Is Arthur forc’d to fear? Is this the fruit of your continual wars, Even from the first remembrance of your youth? ARTHUR. My youth (I grant) and prime of budding years, Puff’d up with pride and fond desire of praise, Foreweening nought what perils might ensue, Adventured all and raught to will the reins:[272] But now this age requires a sager course, And will, advis’d by harms, to wisdom yields. Those swelling spirits, the self-same cause which first Set them on gog, even fortune’s favours quail’d, And now mine oft’nest scapes do scare me most. I fear the trap whereat I oft have tripp’d: Experience tells me plain that chance is frail, And oft the better past, the worse to come. CADOR. Resist these doubts: ’tis ill to yield to harms. ’Tis safest then to dare, when most you fear. ARTHUR. As safe sometimes to fear, when most we dare: A causeless courage gives repentance place. HOWELL. If fortune fawn. ARTHUR. Each way on me she frowns; For win I, lose I, both procure my grief. CADOR. Put case you win, what grief? ARTHUR. Admit I do, what joy? CADOR. Then may you rule. ARTHUR. When I may die. CADOR. To rule is much. ARTHUR. Small, if we covet nought. CADOR. Who covets not a crown? ARTHUR. He that discerns the sword aloft. CADOR. That hangeth fast. ARTHUR. But by a hair. CADOR. Right holds it up. ARTHUR. Wrong pulls it down. CADOR. The Commons help the king. ARTHUR. They sometimes hurt. CADOR. At least the Peers. ARTHUR. Seld, if allegiance want. CADOR. Yet sovereignty. ARTHUR. Not if subjection[273] fail. CADOR. Doubt not: the realm is yours. ARTHUR. ’Twas mine ’till now. CADOR. And shall be still. ARTHUR. If Mordred list. CADOR. ’Twere well your crown were won. ARTHUR. Perhaps ’tis better lost. HOWELL. The name of rule should move a princely mind. ARTHUR. Trust me, bad things have often glorious names. HOWELL. The greatest food that fortune can afford. ARTHUR. A dangerous good, that wisdom would eschew. HOWELL. Yet weigh the hearsay of the old renown. And fame, the wonderer of the former age, Which still extols the facts of worthiest wights, Preferring no deserts before your deeds. Even she exhorts you to this new attempt, Which left untried your winnings be but loss.