ARTHUR. Small credit will be given of matters past To Fame, the flatterer of the former age. Were all believ’d which antique bruit imports, Yet wisdom weighs the peril join’d to praise. Rare is the fame (mark well all ages gone) Which hath not hurt the house it most enhanc’d. Besides, fame’s but a blast that sounds awhile, And quickly stints, and then is quite forgot. Look, whatsoe’er our virtues have achiev’d, The chaos vast and greedy time devours. To-day all Europe rings with Arthur’s praise: ’Twill be as hush’d as if I ne’er had been. What boots it then to venture life or limb For that which needs ere long we leave or lose? CADOR. Can blind affection so much blear the wise, Or love of graceless son so witch the sire, That what concerns the honour of a prince, With country’s good and subject’s just request, Should lightly be contemned by a king? When Lucius sent but for his tribute due, You went with thirteen kings to root him out. Have Romans, for requiring but their own, Abode your nine years’ brunts? Shall Mordred ’scape, That wrong’d you thus in honour, queen, and realm? Were this no cause to stir a king to wrath, Yet should your conquests, late achiev’d ’gainst Rome, Inflame your mind with thirst of full revenge. ARTHUR. Indeed, continual wars have chaf’d our minds, And good success hath bred impatient moods. Rome puffs us up, and makes us too--too fierce. There, Britons, there we stand, whence Rome did fall. Thou, Lucius, mak’st me proud, thou heav’st my mind: But what? shall I esteem a crown ought else Than as a gorgeous crest of easeless helm, Or as some brittle mould of glorious pomp, Or glittering glass which, while it shines, it breaks? All this a sudden chance may dash, and not Perhaps with thirteen kings, or in nine years: All may not find so slow and ling’ring fates. What that my country cries for due remorse, And some relief for long-sustained toils? By seas and lands I daily wrought her wrack, And spareless spent her life on every foe. Each where my soldiers perish’d, whilest I won: Throughout the world my conquest was their spoil. A fair reward for all their deaths, for all Their wars abroad, to give them civil wars! What boots it then, reserv’d from foreign foils, To die at home? what end of ruthless rage? At least let age and nature, worn to nought, Provide at length their graves with wished groans. Pity their hoary hairs, their feeble fists, Their withered limbs, their strengths consum’d in camp! Must they still end their lives amongst the blades? Rests there no other fate, whilst Arthur reigns? What deem you me? A fury fed with blood, Or some Cyclopian, born and bred for brawls? Think on the mind that Arthur bears to peace: Can Arthur please you nowhere but in wars? Be witness, heavens, how far ’tis from my mind Therewith to spoil or sack my native soil. I cannot yield; it brooks not in my breast