THE SECOND SCENE.

GUENEVORA, FRONIA.

Guenevora. And dares he after nine yeares space

returne,

And see her face whom he so long disdainde?
Was I then chose and wedded for his stale,
To looke and gape for his retirelesse sayles,
Puft back and flittering spread to every winde?

O wrong content with no revenge: seeke out
Undared plagues; teach Mordred how to rage:
Attempt some bloodie, dreadfull, irkesome fact,
And such as Mordred would were rather his.

Why stayest? It must be done! let bridle goe:
Frame out some trap beyonde all vulgar guile,
Beyond Medeas wiles: attempt some fact
That any wight unwildie* of her selfe,
That any spowse unfaithfull to her phere,
Durst ever attempt in most dispaire of weale.
Spare no revenge, b'it poyson, knyfe, or fire!

Fronia. Good Madame, temper these outragious moodes,

And let not will usurpe, where wit should rule.

Guenevora. The wrath that breatheth blood doth loath to lurke:

What reason most witholdes, rage wringes perforce.
I am disdainde: so will I not be long.
That very hour that he shall first arrive,

Shall be the last that shall aforde him life.

Though neither seas, nor lands, nor warres abrode Sufficed for thy foyle, yet shalt thou finde

Farre woorse at home-thy deep displeased spowse.
Whate'er thou hast subdude in all thy stay
This hand shall now subdue; then stay thy fill.
What's this? my mind recoyles and yrkes these threats:
Anger delays, my griefe gynnes to asswage,

* Unwildie] i. e. unwieldy or unmanageable of herself-not having any controul over her actions. The sense is a little constrained.

My furie faintes, and sacred wedlockes faith
Presents it selfe. Why shunst thou fearfull wrath?
Adde coales a freshe-preserve me to this venge.

At lest exyle thy selfe to realmes unknowen,
And steale his wealth to helpe thy banish't state;
For flight is best. O, base and heartlesse feare!
Theft? Exyle? Flight? all these may fortune sende
Unsought; but thee beseemes more high revenge.

Come, spitefull fiends, come, heapes of furies fell,
Not one by one, but all at once! my breast
Raves not inough: it likes me to be filde

With greater monsters yet. My hart doth throbbe,
My liver boyles: somewhat my minde portendes,
Uncertayne what-but whatsoever it's huge.
So it exceede, be what it will, it's well.
Omit no plague, and none will be inough.
Wrong cannot be reveng'd but by excesse.

Fronia. O spare this heate! you yeelde too much to rage:

Y'are too unjust. Is there no meane in wrong? Guenevora. Wrong claymes a meane when first you offer wronge:

The meane is vaine when wrong is in revenge.
Great harmes cannot be hidde: the griefe is small,
That can receave advise, or rule it selfe.

Fronia. Hatred concealde doth often happe to hurte, But once profest, it oftner failes revenge.

How better tho wert to repress your yre:

A ladies best revenge is to forgive.

What meane is in your hate? how much so'er
You can invent or dare, so much you hate.

Guenevora. And would you know what meane there

is in hate,

Call love to minde, and see what meane is there.
My love, redoubled love, and constant faith
Engaged unto Mordred workes so deepe,
That both my hart and marrow quite be burnt,
And synewes dried with force of woontlesse flames.
Desire to joy him still torments my mynde:
Feare of his want doth add a double griefe.

Loe, here the love that stirres this meanlesse hate.

Fronia. Echew it farre: such love impugnes the laws. Guenevora. Unlawfull love doth like when lawfull lothes.

Fronia. And is your love of husband quite extinct? Guenevora. The greater flame must needes delay the lesse:

Besides, his sore revenge I greatly feare.

Fronia. How can you then attempt a fresh offence? Guenevora. Who can appoint a stint to her offence? Fronia. But here the greatnesse of the fact should

move.

Guenevora. The greater it, the fitter for my griefe. Fronia. To kill your spowse?

Guenevora. A stranger and a foe.

Fronia. Your liedge and king.

Guenevora. He wants both realme and crowne. Fronia. Nature affordes not to your sexe such strength. Guenevora. Love, anguish, wroth will soon afforde inough.

Fronia. What rage is this?

Guenevora. Such as himselfe shall rue.

Fronia. Whom Gods doe presse inough will you

annoy.

Guenevora. Whom Gods doe presse they bende; whom man annoyes

He breakes.

Fronia. Your griefe is more then his desertes.
Ech fault requires an equall hate: be not severe
Where crimes be light. As you have felt so greeve.
Guenevora. And seems it light to want him nine yeare
space?

Then, to be spoilde of one I hold more dear?
Thinke all too much, b'it ne'r so just, that feedes
Continuall griefe: the lasting woe is worst.

Fronia. Yet let your highnesse shun these desperate
moodes:

Cast of this rage and fell disposed minde.

Put not shame quite to flight: have some regard
Both of your sexe and future fame of life.

C

Use no such cruell thoughts as farre exceede
A manly minde, much more a woman's hart.
Guenevora. Well; shame is not so quite exilde, but
that

I can and will respect your sage advise.
Your counsell I accept: give leave a while,
Till fiery wrath may slake and rage relent.

[Exit Fronia.

Guenevora. The love that for his rage will not be rulde Must be restrainde: fame shall receive no foile. Let Arthur live; whereof to make him sure My selfe will dye, and so prevent his harmes.

Why stayest thou thus amazde, O, slouthfull wrath? Mischief is meant-dispatch it on thy selfe.

Angharat. Her breast, not yet appeasde from former

rage,

Hath chaungde her wrath, which wanting meanes to worke

An others woe (for such is furie's woont)

Seekes out his owne, and raves upon it selfe.
Asswage (alas) that over fervent ire:
Through too much anger you offend too much.
Thereby the rather you deserve to live

For seeming worthy in your selfe to dye.

Guenevora. Death is decreed; what kinde of death I doubt:

Whether to dround or stifill up this breath

Or forcing bloud to dye with dint of knife.

All hope of prosperous hap is gone. My fame,

My faith, my spouse: no good is left unlost!

My selfe am left-there's left both seas and lands,

And sword, and fire, and chaines, and choice of harmes.

These lines as they stand in the original are nonsense.
"Whether to dround or stifill up this breath,

On sorcing blood to dye with dint of knife."

O gnawing easelesse griefe! who now can heale My maymed minde? It must be healde by death. Angharat. No mischiefe must be done whiles I be by; Or if there must, there must be more then one. If death it be you seeke, I seeke it too;

Alone you may not die, with me you may.

Guenevora. They that will drive th'unwilling to their death,

Or frustrate death in those that faine would die, Offend alike. They spoile that bootelesse spare. Angharat. But will my teares, and mournings move you nought?

Guenevora. Then it is best to die when friends doe

mourne.

Augharat. Ech where is death! the fates have well ordainde,

That ech man may bereave himselfe of life
But none of death: death is so sure a doome,
A thousand wayes doe guide us to our graves.
Who then can ever come too late to that,
Whence, when h' is come, he never can returne?
Or what availes to hasten on our ends,
And long for that which destenies have sworne!
Looke back in time: too late is to repent
When furious rage hath once cut of the choice.

Guenevora. Death is an end of paine, no paine it selfe.
Is't meete a plague for such excessive wrong
Should be so short? Should one stroke answere all ?
And wouldst thou dye? well, that contents the lawes :
What then for Arthurs ire? What for thy fame,
Which thou hast stainde? What for thy stock thou
shamst?

Not death, nor life alone can give a full Revenge: joine both in one-die and yet live: Where paine may not be oft, let it be long. Seeke out some lingring death, whereby thy corse May neither touch the dead nor joy the quicke. Die, but no common death: passe natures boundes. Angharat. Set plaintes aside: despaire yeelds no reliefe;