They lov’d to live that, seeing all their realm
Thus topsy-turvy turn, would grudge to die.
Arthur. Yea, sure: since thus (O fates) your censure seems,
That free from force of foreign foes, there rests
That Mordred reap the glory of our deaths,
B’ it so: drive on your doom, work your decree:
We fearless bide what bane soe’er you bid.
And though our ends, thus hastened to your hests,
Abruptly break the course of great attempts,
Yet go we not inglorious to the ground: