This breath draws on but matter of mishap:
Death only frees the guiltless from annoys.
Who so hath felt the force of greedy fates,
And ’dur’d the last decree of grisly death,
Shall never yield his captive arms to chains,
Nor drawn in triumph deck the victor’s pomp.
Howell. What mean these words? Is Arthur forc’d to fear?
Is this the fruit of your continual wars,
Even from the first remembrance of your youth?
Arthur. My youth (I grant) and prime of budding years,