Fourth Chorus. Although your highness do sustain such grief,
As needs enforceth all your realm to rue,
Yet since such ruth affordeth no relief,
Let due discretion ’suage each cureless sore,
And bear the harms that run without redress.
The loss is ours, that lose so rare a prince:
You only win, that see your foe here foil’d.
[The breathless body of Mordred in armour, as he fell, is brought upon the stage.
Arthur. A causeless foe. When wars did call me hence,
He was in years but young, in wit too old.