The more you search a wounde the more it stings. Guenevora. When guiltie mindes torment them selves, they heale,

Whiles woundes be cur'd, griefe is a salve for griefe. Angharat. Griefe is no just esteemer of our deedes. What so hath yet been done proceedes from chaunce. Guenevora. The minde and not the chaunce doth make th' unchast.

Angharat. Then is your fault from Fate; you rest excusde.

None can be deemed faultie for her Fate.

Guenevora. No Fate, but manners fayle when we offende.

Impute mishaps to Fates-to manners faultes.

Angharat. Love is an error that may blinde the best. Guenevora. A mightie error oft hath seemde a sinne. My death is vowed and death must needes take place. But such a death as stands with just remorse: Death to the world and to her slipperie joyes: A full divorce from all this courtly pompe, Where dayly pennance done for each offence May render due revenge for every wrong.

Which to accomplish, pray my deerest friends That they forthwith, attyrde in saddest guise, Conduct me to the Cloister next hereby, There to professe, and to renounce the world. Angharat. Alas! what chaunge were that! from kingly rooffes

To cloistered celles-to live and die at once!

To want your stately troupes, your friends and kinne,
To shun the shewes and sights of stately court;
To see in sort alive your countries death.
Yea, what so'er even death it selfe withdrawes
From any els, that life withdrawes from you.
Yet since your highnes is so fully bent
I will obay: the whiles asswage your griefe.

[Exit.

THE FOURTH SCENE.

MORDRED. GUENEVORA. CONAN.

Mordred. The houre which erst I alwaies feared most,

The certaine ruine of my desperate state,

Is happened now! why turnst thou (minde) thy back? Why at the first assault doest thou recoile?

Trust to't: the angry Heavens contrive some spight, And dreadfull doome t'augment thy cursed hap. Oppose to ech revenge thy guiltie heade,

And shun no paine, nor plague fit for thy fact.

What shouldst thou feare, that seest not what to hope?*

No danger's left before-all's at thy backe.
He safely stands, that stands beyond his harmes.
Thine (death) is all that East and West can see :
For thee we live, our comming is not long :
Spare us but whiles we may prepare our graves.
Though thou wert slowe, we hasten of our selves.
The houre that gave did also take our lives:
No sooner men, then mortall were we borne.
I see mine ende drawes on, I feele my plagues.
Guenevora. No plague for one ill borne to dye as ill.
Mordred. O Queene! my sweete associate in this
plunge

And desperate plight, beholde, the time is come,
That either justifies our former faults,

Or shortly sets us free from every feare.

Guenevora. My feare is past, and wedlock love hath

woonne.

Retire we thither yet, whence first we ought
Not to have stir'd. Call backe chast faith againe.

Milton has this thought, almost in the same words, allowing for

the difference of an interrogation.

"For where no hope is left, is left no fear."

Pur. Reg. III. 206.

The way that leads to good is ne'r to late: Who so repents is guiltlesse of his crimes.

Mordred. What meanes this course? Is Arthur's wedlocke safe,

Or can he love, that hath just cause to hate?
That nothing else were to be feard:

Is most apparent, that he hates at home
What e'r he be whose fansie strayes abroad.
Thinke, then, our love is not unknowen to him,
Whereof what patience can be safely hopte?
Nor love nor soveraigntie can beare a peere.

Guenevora. Why dost thou still stirre up my flames delayde?

His strayes and errors must not move my minde:
A law for private men bindes not the king.

What, that I ought not to condemne my liedge,
Nor can, thus guiltie to myne owne offence!
Where both have done amisse, both will relent:
He will forgive that needes must be forgiven.

Mordred. A likely thing, your faults must make you friends;

What sets you both at oddes must joine you both.
Thinke well, he casts already for revenge,

And how to plague us both. I know his law;
A judge severe to us, milde to him selfe.

What then availes you to returne to late,

When you have past to farre? You feede vaine hopes. Guenevora. The further past, the more this fault is yours.

It serv'd your turne t'usurpe your father's crowne:
His is the crime, whom crime stands most in steede.
Mordred. They that conspire in faults offend a like:
Crime makes them equall whom it jointly staines.
If for my sake you then pertooke my guilt,
You cannot guiltlesse seeme: the crime was joint.
Guenevora. Well should* she seeme most guiltlesse

unto thee,

What e'r she be, that's guiltie for thy sake.'

The word should is accidentally repeated in this line in the old copy.

The remnant of that sober minde, which thou Hadst heretofore nere vanquish't, yet resists. Suppresse, for shame, that impious mouth so taught, And so much skil'd t'abuse the wedded bed.

Looke backe to former fates: Troy still had stoode Had not her Prince made light of wedlocks lore. The vice that threw downe Troy doth threat thy throne. Take heed: there Mordred stands whence Paris fell.

[Exit. Conan. Since that your highnes knowes for certaine

truth

What power your sire prepares to claime his right,
It neerely now concernes you to resolve

In humbliest sort to reconcile your selfe

Gainst his returne.

Mordred. Will warre?

Conan. That lies in chaunce.

Mordred. I have as great a share in chaunce as he. Conan. His waies be blinde that maketh chaunce his guide.

Mordred. Whose refuge lies in chaunce, what dares he not?

Conan. Warres were a crime farre worse then all the rest.

Mordred. The safest passage is from bad to worse. Conan. That were to passe too farre, and put no

meane.

Mordred. He is a foole that puts a meane in crimes. Conan. But sword and fire would cause a common wound.

Mordred. So sword and fire will often seare the soare. Conan. Extremest cures must not be used first.

Mordred. In desperate times the head-long way is best. Conan. Y'have many foes.

Mordred. No more then faythfull friends.

Conan. Trust to't, their faith will faint where fortune failes.

Where many men pretend a love to one

Whose power may doe what good or harme he will, 'Tis hard to say which be his faithfull friends.

Dame Flatterie flitteth oft: she loves and hates
With time, a present friend an absent foe.
Mordred. But yet y'll hope the best.*

Conan. Even then you feare

The worst feares follow hopes as fumes doe flames. Mischief is sometimes safe, but ne'r secure.

The wrongfull Scepter's held with trembling hand. Mordred. Whose rule wants right, his safety's in his sword;

For sword and sceptre comes to kings at once.

Conan. The kingliest point is to affect but right. Mordred. Weake is the scepters hold that seekes but right,

The care whereof hath hath danger'd many crownes.
As much as water differeth from the fire,

So much man's profit jarres from what is just.
A free recourse to wrong doth oft secure

The doubtfull seate, and plucks downe many a foe.
The sword must seldome cease: a soveraigne's hand
Is scantly safe, but whiles it smites. Let him
Usurpe no crowne that likes a guiltles life:
Aspiring power and justice sield agree.

He alwaies feares that shames to offer wrong.

Conan. What sonne would use such wrong against his sire?

Mordred. Come sonne, come sire, I first preferre my selfe;

And since a wrong must be, then it excels

When 'tis to gaine a crowne.

I hate a peere;

I loath, I yrke, I doe detest a head.

B'it nature, be it reason, be it pride,

I love to rule! my minde, nor with, nor by,
Nor after any claimes, but chiefe and first!

Conan. But thinke what fame and grievous bruits would runne

Of such disloyall and unjust attempts.

Mordred. Fame goes not with our ghosts: the senseless soule

* "But yet y'll hope the best" is by mistake given to Conan in the old copy.