No luck can last; now here, now there it lights:
No state alike, chance blindly snatcheth all,
And fortune maketh guilty whom she lists.
Mordred. Since therefore fear and hope, and hap in wars,
Be all obscure, till their success be seen,
Your speech doth rather drive me on to try,
And trust them all, mine only refuge now.
Gawin. And fear you not so strange and uncouth wars?
Mordred. No, were they wars that grew from out the ground!
Gawin. Nor yet your sire so huge, yourself so small?