But grief where pain is spent, no hope to speed.
Strive not above your strength; for where your force
Is overmatch’d with your attempts, it faints,
And fruitless leaves what bootless it began.
Mordred. All things are rul’d in constant course: no fate
But is foreset: the first day leads the last.
No wisdom then, but difference in conceit,
Which works in many men as many minds.
You love the mean, and follow virtue’s race:
I like the top, and aim at greater bliss.