No doubt these market-mates, so highly hir’d, Must be the stay of thy usurped state. And lest my head, inclining now to years, Should joy the rest, which yet it never reap’d, The traitor Gilla, train’d in treacherous jars, Is chief in arms to reave me of my realm. What corner (ah), for all my wars, shall shroud My bloodless age? what seat for due deserts? What town or field for ancient soldiers’ rest? What house? what roof? what walls for wearied limbs? Stretch out again, stretch out your conquering hands! Still we must use the force so often us’d. To those that will pursue a wrong with wreak He giveth all, that once denies the right. Thou soil, which erst Diana did ordain The certain seat and bow’r of wand’ring Brute: Thou realm, which aye I reverence as my saint, Thou stately Britain, th’ ancient type of Troy, Bear with my forced wrongs! I am not he, That willing would impeach thy peace with wars! Lo, here both far and wide I conqueror stand: Arthur, each where thine own, thy liege, thy king. Condemn not mine attempts; he, only he, Is sole in fault that makes me thus thy foe. Here I renounce all leagues and treats of truce: Thou, fortune, henceforth art my guard and guide! Hence, peace! on wars run fates: let Mars be judge; I erst did trust to right, but now to rage. Go, tell the boy that Arthur fears no brags: In vain he seeks to brave it with his sire. I come (Mordred), I come, but to thy pain. Yea, tell the boy his angry father comes To teach a novice both to die and dare. [_Herald exit._ HOWELL. If we without offence (O greatest guide Of British name) may pour our just complaints, We most mislike that your too mild a mood Hath thus withheld our hands and swords from strokes. For what? were we behind in any help? Or without cause did you misdoubt our force, Or truth so often tried with good success? Go to: conduct your army to the field; Place man to man, oppose us to our foes: As much we need to work, as wish your weal. CADOR. Seems it so sour to win by civil wars? Were it to gore with pike my father’s breast; Were it to rive and cleave my brother’s head; Were it to tear peacemeal my dearest child, I would enforce my grudging hands to help. I cannot term that place my native soil, Whereto your trumpets send their warlike sounds. If case requir’d to batter down the tow’rs Of any town that Arthur would destroy, Yea, were ’t of Britain’s self, which most I reed, Her bulwarks, fortress, rampiers, walls and fence, These arms should rear the rams to run them down. Wherefore, ye princes, and the rest, my mates, If what I have averr’d in all your names, Be likewise such as stands to your content, Let all your yeas avow my premise[274] true. SOLDIERS. Yea, yea, &c.