ARTHUR. Yea, sure: since thus (O fates) your censure seems, That free from force of foreign foes, there rests That Mordred reap the glory of our deaths, B’ it so: drive on your doom, work your decree: We fearless bide what bane soe’er you bid. And though our ends, thus hastened to your hests, Abruptly break the course of great attempts, Yet go we not inglorious to the ground: Set wish apart, we have perform’d enough. The Irish king and nation wild we tam’d; The Scots and Picts, and Orcade Isles, we wan; The Danes and Goths, and Friesland men, with all The Isles inserted near those seas; and next The German king and Saxons we subdu’d. Not France that could prevail against our force, Nor lastly Rome, that rues her pride suppress’d. Each foreign power is parcel of our praise: No titles want to make our foes afraid. This only now I crave (O fortune! erst My faithful friend): let it be soon forgot, Nor long in mind nor mouth, where Arthur fell: Yea, though I conqueror die, and full of fame, Yet let my death and parture rest obscure. No grave I need (O fates!) nor burial-rights, Nor stately hearse, nor tomb with haughty top; But let my carcase lurk; yea, let my death Be aye unknowen, so that in every coast I still be fear’d, and look’d for every hour. [_Exeunt_ ARTHUR _and_ CADOR. CHORUS. 1. Lo, here the end that fortune sends at last To him, whom first she heav’d to highest hap! The flattering look, wherewith he long was led; The smiling fates, that oft had fed his fame, The many wars and conquests which he gain’d, Are dash’d at once: one day infers that foil, Whereof so many years of yore were free. 2. O willing world to magnify man’s state! O most unwilling to maintain the same! Of all misfortunes and unhappy fates Th’ unhappiest seems to have been happy once.[282] ’Twas Arthur sole, that never found his joys Disturb’d with woe, nor woes reliev’d with joy. In prosperous state all heavenly pow’rs aspir’d; Now, made a wretch, not one that spares his spoil! 3. Yea, fortune’s self in this afflicted case Exacts a pain for long-continued pomp. She urgeth now the bliss of wonted weal, And bears him down with weight of former fame. His praises past be present shame. O fickle trust, Whiles fortune chops and changeth every chance, What certain bliss can we enjoy alive, Unless, whiles yet our bliss endures, we die? 4. Yea, since before his last and utmost gasp, None can be deem’d a happy man or bless’d, Who dares commit himself to prosperous fates, Whose death prepar’d attends not hard at hand: That sithence death must once determine all, His life may sooner fly, than fortune flit. THE SECOND SCENE.