GAWIN

A message far unmeet, most neédefull though. The Sire commands not, where the Son rebels: His love descends too deep to wish your death. Yet thus he offereth: though your faults be great, And most disloyal to his deep abuse: Yet yeélde your self: he'il be as prove to grace, As you to ruth: And Uncle, Sire, and Liege. And fitter were your endue submission done, Then wrongful wars to reave his right and Realm. It is his right, that he attempts to seek: It is your wrong that driveth him thereto. The more you ought to tremble at his pour. The more your foil, if you should hap to lose. For Arthurs fame, and valure's such, as you Should rather imitate, or at the least Envy, if hope of better fancies failde. For whereas Envy reigns, though it repines, Yet does it fear a greater then it self. As Chance hath made you King, so Chance may change. Provide for peace: that's it the highest piers, No state except, even Conquerors ought to seek. Remember Arthurs strength, his conquests late, His fiery mind, his high aspiring heart. Mark then the odds: he expert, you untried: He ripe, you greéne: yield you, while yet you may, He will not yield: he wins his peace with wars. What Cursed wars (alas) were those, wherein Both son and sire should so oppose themselves? Him, whom you now unhappy man pursue, If you should win, your self would first bewail. Give him his Crown, to keep it peril breeds. Consider then your Father's grief, and want: Whom you bereave of Kingdom, Realm, and Crown. A common want, which works each worldlings woe, That many have too much, but none enough. It were his praise, could he be so content Which makes you guilty of the greater wrong. Wherefore think on the doubtful state of wars, Where Mars hath sway, he keeps no certain course. Sometime he lets the weaker to prevail, Some times the stronger stoops: hope, fear, and rage With eyeless lot rules all, uncertain good, Most certain harms, be his assured haps. No luck can last, now here, now their it lights: No state alike, Chance blindly snatches all, And Fortune makes guilty whom she lists. And fear you not so strange and uncouth wars? Nor yet your sire so huge, your self so small? Nor that in felling him, your self may fallen? Nor common Chance whereto each man is thrall? Nor that, if Chance afflict, kings brook it not? War seems sweet to such as have not tried: But wisdom wills we should forecast the worst. The end allows the act: that plot is wise, That knows his means, and least relies on Chance. Eschew the course where error lurks, their grows But grief, where pain is spent, no hope to speed. Strive not above your strength: for where your force Is over matchte with your attempts, it faints, And fruitless leaves, what bootless it began. But will no reason rule that desperate mind? Oh strange contempt: Like as the craggy rock, Resists the streams, and flings the waltering waves Aloof, so he rejects and scorns my words. Exit. As heretofore I always served your hest, So let this day be judge of Gawins trust. Either my brother Mordred die the death By mine assault, or I at least by his.