GILDAS. Lord Conan, though I know how hard a thing It is for minds train’d up in princely thrones, To hear of ought against their humour’s course, Yet, sithence who forbiddeth not offence, If well he may, is cause of such offence, I could have wish’d (and blame me not, my lord) Your place and countenance both with son and sire Had more prevail’d on either side, than thus T’ have left a crown in danger for a crown Through civil wars, our country’s wonted woe: Whereby the kingdom’s wound, still fest’ring deep, Sucks up the mischievous[279] humour to the heart. The staggering state of Britain’s troubled brains, Headsick and sore encumbered in her crown, With giddy steps runs on a headlong race. Whereto this tempest tends, or where this storm Will break, who knows? but gods avert the worst! CONAN. Now surely (Gildas) as my duty stood Indifferent for the best to son and sire, So (I protest), since these occasions grew, That in the depth of my desire to please, I more esteem’d what honest faith requir’d In matters meet for their estates and place, Than how to feed each fond affection, prone To bad effects, whence their disgrace mought grow. And as for Mordred’s desperate and disloyal plots, They had been none, or fewer at the least, Had I prevail’d, which Arthur knows right well. But even as counters go sometimes for one, Sometimes for thousands more, sometimes for none: So men in greatest countenance with their king Can work by fit persuasion sometimes much; But sometimes less, and sometimes nought at all. GILDAS. Well, we that have not spent our time in wars, But bent our course at peace and country’s weal, May rather now expect what strange event And chance ensues of these so rare attempts, Than enter to discourse upon their cause, And err as wide in words, as they in deeds. CONAN. And lo, to satisfy your wish therein, Where comes a soldier sweating from the camp. THE SECOND SCENE. NUNCIUS. NUNCIUS. Thou echo shrill, that haunt’st the hollow hills, Leave off, that wont to snatch the latter word. Howl on a whole discourse of our distress: Clip off no clause; sound out a perfect sense. GILDAS. What fresh mishap (alas), what new annoy Removes our pensive minds from wonted woes, And yet requires a new lamenting mood, Declare! we joy to handle all our harms: Our many griefs have taught us still to mourn. NUNCIUS. But (ah) my tongue denies my speech his aid: Great force doth drive it forth; a greater keeps It in. I rue, surpris’d with wontless woes. CONAN. Speak on what grief soe’er our fates afford. NUNCIUS. Small griefs can speak, the great astonish’d stand.[280] GILDAS. What greater sin could hap, than what be pass’d? What mischiefs could be meant, more than were wrought?