GUENEVORA

AND dares he after nine years space return, And see her face, whom he so long disdain'de? Was I then chosen and wedded for his stale, To look and Gam e for his retirelesse sails, Puffed back, and flittering spread to every wind? Oh wrong content with no revenge: seek out Undared plagues, teach Mordred how to rage. Attempt some bloody dreadful, irksome fact, And such as Mordred would were rather his. Why stayest? it must be done: let bridle go, Frame out some trap beyond all vulgar guile, Beyond Medea's wiles: attempt some fact, That any wight unwieldy of her self, That any spouse unfaithful to her phere, Durst ever attempt in most despair of weal. Spare no revenge, b'it poison, knife, or fire. The wrath, that breathes blood, does loath to lurk. What reason most with holds, rage wrings perforce. I am disdainde: so will I not be long: , that he shall first arrive, shall afford him life. lands, nor wars abroad Sufficed for thy foil: yet shalt thou find Far worse at home: Thy deep displeased spouse. What e'r thou hast ubdude in all thy stay, This hand shall now subdue: then stay thy fill. What's this? my mind recoils, and irks these threats: Anger delays, my grief gynnes to assuage, My fury faintes, and sacred wedlock's faith Presents it self. Why shunst thou fearful wrath? Add coals a Fresh, preserve me to this venge. At lest exile thy self to realms unknown, And steal his wealth to help thy banished state, For flight is best. Oh base and heartless fear. Theft? exile? flight? all these may Fortune send Unsought: but thee beseems more high revenge. Come spiteful fiends, come heaps of furies fell, Not one, by one, but all at once: my breast Raves not enough: it likes me to be filde With greater monsters yet. My heart does throb: My liver boils: some what my mind portends, Uncertain what: but whatsoever, it's huge. So it exceed, be what it will: it's well. Omit no plague, and none will be enough. Wrong cannot be revenged, but by excess. Wrong claims a mean, when first you offer wrong. The mean is vain, when wrong is in revenge. Great harms cannot be hid, the grief is small, That can re eave advise, or rule it self. And would you know what mean there is in hate? Call love to mind, and see what mean is there. My love, redoubled love, and constant faith Engaged unto Mordred works so deep: That both my heart and marrow quite be burned, And sinews dried with force of woontlesse flames, Desire to joy him still, torments my mind: Fear of his want does and a double grief. Lo here the love, that stirs this meanelesse hate. Unlawful love does Like, when lawful loathes. The greater flame must needs delay the less. Beside, his soar revenge I greatly fear. Who can appoint a stint to her offence? The greater it, the fitter for my grief: A stranger, and a foe. He wants both Realm and Crown. Love, anguish, wrath, will soon afford enough. Such as himself shall rue. Whom Gods do press, they bend: whom man annoys, He breaks. And seémes it light to want him nine year space? Then to be spoiled of one I hold more deer? Think all to much, b'it never so joust, that feédes Continual grief: the lasting woe is worst. Well: shame is not so quite exiled, but that I can, and will respect your sage advise. Your counsel I accept, give leave a while, Till fiery wrath may S ache, and rage relent. Exit FRON. THE love, that for his rage will not be ruled, Must be restrainde: fame shall receive no foil. Let Arthur live, whereof to make him sure, My self will die, and so prevent his harms. Why stayest thou thus amazed Oh slothful wrath? Mischief is meant, dispatch it on thy self. Death is decreed: what kind of death, I doubt: Whither to drowned, or stifill up his breath. On forcing blood, to die with dint of knife. All hope of prosperous hap is gone, my fame, My faith, my spouse: no good is left unlost: My self am left, ther's left both seas and lands, And sword, and fire, and chains, and choice of harms. Oh gnawing easeless grief. Who now can heal My maimed mind? it must be healed by death. They, that will driven unwilling to their death, Or frustrate death in those, that feign would die, Offend alike. They spoil, that b otelesse spare. Then is it best to die, when friends do mourn. Death is and end of pain no pain it self. Is't meet a plague, for such excessive wrong, Should be so short? Soould one stroke answer all? And wouldst thou die? Well: that contents the laws, What then for Arthurs ire? What for thy fame, Which thou hast stained? What for thy stock thou shamst? Not death, nor life alone can give a full Revenge: join both in one. Die: and yet live Where pain may not be oft, let it be long. Seek out some lingering death, whereby, thy corpse May neither touch the dead, nor joy the quick. Die: but no common death: pass Nature's bounds. When guilty minds torment them selves, they heal: While wounds be cured, grief is a salve for grief. The mind, and not the chance, does make unchaste, No Fate, but manners fail, when we offend. Impute mishaps to Fates, to manners faults. A mighty error oft hath seémde a sin. My death is vowed, and death must needs take place. But such a death, as stands with joust remorse: Death, to the world, and to her slippery joys: A full divorce from all this Courtly pomp. Where daily penance done for each offence, May render endue revenge for every wrong. Which to accomplish: pray my deérest friends, That they forthwith attyrde in saddest guise, Conduct me to the Cloister next hereby, There to profess, and to renounce the world. No plague for one ill born, to die as ill. My fear is passed, and wedlock love hath woonne. Retire we thither yet, whence first we ought Not to have stirred. Call back chased faith again. The way, that leads to good, is never to late: Who so repents, is guiltless of his crimes. Why dost thou still stir up my flames delayde? His strays and errors must not move my mind. A law for private men binds not the King. What, that I ought not to condemn my liege, Nor can, thus guilty to mine own offence? Where both have done amiss, both will relent. He will forgive, that needs must be forgiven. The further passed, the more this fault is yours: It served your turn, usurp your father's Crown. His is the crime, whom crime stands most in steéde. Well should should she seem most guiltless unto Thee, Whatever she be, that's guilty for thy sake. The remnant of that sober mind, which thou Hadst heretofore never vanquished, yet resists. Suppress for shame that impious mouth so taught, And to much skilled t'abuse the wedded bed. Look back to former Fates: Troy still had stood, Had not her Prince made light of wedlock's lore. The vice, that threw down Troy, does threat thy Throne: Take heéde: there Mordred stands, whence Paris fell. Exit.