To seek her ruin whom I erst have rul’d, What relics now soe’er both civil broils And foreign wars have left, let those remain: Th’ are few enough, and Britons fall too fast. THE SECOND SCENE. _An_ HERALD _from_ MORDRED. HOWELL. Lo, here an herald sent from Mordred’s camp: A froward message, if I read aright. We mought not stir his wrath; perhaps this may: Persuasions cannot move a Briton’s mood, And yet none sooner stung with present wrong. [_Aside._] HERALD. Hail, peerless prince! whiles fortune would, our king, Though now bereft of crown and former rule. Vouchsafe me leave my message to impart, No jot enforc’d, but as your son affords. If here you stay but three days to an end, And not forthwith discharge your bands and host, ’Tis Mordred’s oath: assure yourself to die. But if you find your courage so to serve, As for to stand to your defence with force, In Cornwall (if you dare) he’ll try it out. ARTHUR. Is this the choice my son doth send his sire? And must I die, or try it, if I dare? To die were ill, thus to be dar’d is worse. Display my standard forth! let trump and drum Call soldiers near to hear their sovereign’s hest. THE THIRD SCENE. GAWIN _King of Albany_, ASCHILLUS _King of Denmark_, KING OF NORWAY. _A number of Soldiers._ ARTHUR. O friends, and fellows of my weariest toils, Which have borne out with me so many brunts, And desperate storms of wars and brainsick Mars! Lo now the hundreth month, wherein we win! Hath all the blood we spent in foreign coasts, The wounds and deaths, and winters bode abroad, Deserved thus to be disgraced at home? All Britain rings of wars: no town nor field But swarms with armed troops: the mustering trains Stop up the streets: no less a tumult’s rais’d, Than when Hengistus fell, and Horsa, fierce With treacherous truce, did overrun the realm. Each corner threateneth death: both far and near Is Arthur vex’d. What, if my force had fail’d And standard fall’n, and ensigns all been torn, And Roman troops pursu’d me at the heels, With luckless wars assay’d in foreign soils? Now that our fortune heaves us up thus high, And heavens themselves renew our old renown, Must we be dar’d? Nay, let that princock come, That knows not yet himself, nor Arthur’s force; That ne’er yet waged wars; that’s yet to learn To give the charge: yea, let that princock come, With sudden soldiers pamper’d up in peace, And gowned troops and wantons worn with ease; With sluggish Saxons’ crew and Irish kerns, And Scottish aid, and false redshanked Picts, Whose slaughters yet must teach their former foil. They shall perceive with sorrow, ere they part, When all their toils be told, that nothing works So great a waste and ruin in this age, As do my wars. O Mordred, blessed son!