Call nothing sin but what hath since ensu’d.
A greater grief requires your tears. Behold
These fresh annoys: your last mishaps be stale.
Conan. Tell on (my friend): suspend our minds no more.
Hath Arthur lost? hath Mordred won the field?
Nuncius. O, nothing less! would, gods, it were but so!
Arthur hath won, but we have lost the field.
The field? Nay, all the realm and Britain’s bounds.
Gildas. How so? If Arthur won, what could we lose?
You speak in clouds, and cast perplexed words.