Mordred. The hour, which erst I always feared most
The certain ruin of my desperate state,
Is happened now! why turn’st thou (mind) thy back?
Why at the first assault dost thou recoil?
Trust to’t, the angry heavens contrive some spite,
And dreadful doom t’augment thy cursed hap.
Oppose to each revenge thy guilty head,
And shun no pain, nor plague fit for thy fact.
What shouldst thou fear, that see’st not what to hope?[256]
No danger’s left before: all’s at thy back.