My son’s respect, our hopes repos’d in both!
Cador. The time, [O] puissant Prince, permits not now
To moan our wrongs, or search each several sore.
Since Arthur thus hath ransack’d all abroad,
What marvel is ’t, if Mordred rave at home?
When far and near your wars had worn the world,
What wars were left for him but civil wars?
All which requires revenge with sword and fire,
And to pursue your foes with present[271] force.
In just attempts Mars gives a rightful doom.