Poetical tragedies

Preface

The; four tragedies included in this volume are widely separated in their subject-matter. It is a far call from Arthur of the Round Table, of ancient Celtic Britain, to Daulac, of the French Canadas, and they each are seemingly separated from the fortunes of the great Pope Gregory; yet these plays are included in the one volume because they deal with those eternal problems of the human soul which all of the world's thinkers have had at heart. Two of the plays, " Mordred " and " Hildebrand," were written in 1893, and published in a small edition in 1895, while the others now appear for the first time in book form. The author makes no apology for the form of these plays. Like other writers, he has his own literary ideals, and with the great mass of the sane British peoples, believes that Shakespeare is still the great dramatic poet of the modern world.

If these plays, in spite of their imperfections, receive a kindly welcome, the author will later publish another group of his historical dramas and comedies in a separate volume.

Ottawa, November, 1908.

Contents

Mordred : a Tragedy in five Acts Daulac : a Tragedy in five Acts - Morning : a Tragedy in five Acts Hildebrand : a Tragedy in four Acts

MORDRED.

A Tragedy in Five Acts, founded on the Arthurian relation of Sir Thomas Malory.

II Pkeface

I make no pretence to rival so great a word-artist as Tennyson. But when we enter the field of tragedy, literature ceases to be a mere matter of words or mated vowels. The great human problem confronts us. Therefore, with all of its imperfections, I send this play, which was written in 1893, and first published in 1895, forth once more into the world of readers, trusting that it may find a place in the great collection of literature which has grown about the wonderful personality of Arthur.

DRAMATIS PERSON/E.

Arthur, King of Britain.

MordrEd, illegitimate son of Arthur. Sir Launcexot.

Merun.

Sir Gwaine.

King Leodegrance, father to Guinevere.

Sir Agravaine.

Sir Mador.

Sir BediverE.

Dagonet, the King's jester.

A Hermit.

Guinevere, Queen of Britain.

Vivien.

Elaine, a maiden who loves Launcelot. Unid, a lady in waiting to the Queen. Knights, gentlemen, ladies, soldiers, herdsmen, messengers and pages.

MORDRED.

ACT I. Scene: i. Plack — A hermitage in the woods

Enter Arthur, Launcelot and other Knights.

Laun. Here is a place of prayer ; we will alight, And rest a space and think us of our sins.

Ar. Launcelot, and were I shrived and clean, Half hell itself were loosened of its pains.

Laun. Arthur, friend and lover of my youth, Couldst thou but throw this black mood from thee now, And get a sweeter hope into thy soul, Drive out the horrid phantoms of the past, And it were hope for Britain. Well thou knowest Men look to thee to succor this poor land Enrent by inward brawls and foreign hordes, Whose fields untilled, and vanished the smoke of homes. It hath been said that thou wouldst raise once more Out of these ruins a kingdom whose great fame Would ring for ages down the days of earth, And be a glory in men's hearts forever.

[Passes to the left.

Ar. Launcelot, I know thy love for Arthur. 'Tis thy sweet, manly kinship of the heart, Opening thy spirit's windows toward the sun, Hath made my dark days lighter. Would that I Had kept me holy, innocent as thee. I might in kinder fate have made this land A place where holiness and peace might dwell, And such a white and lofty honor held

Before men's eyes, that all the world would come And worship freedom's beauty freed from sin. Such dreams have haunted me from my first youth, In fitful slumbers or long marching hours. These lonesome, lofty vigils of the heart Have made men deem me colder. 'Tis my sin !

0 Launcelot, I am blacker than thou knowest!

[Exit Launcelot.

Bnter Hermit.

Her. And comest thou, my son, for Church's grace? Ar. I come here, Father, for to have me shrived.

[Kneels.

Her. Then thou art shriven ; such a noble face Could never harbor evil in its grace.

[Lifts his hands in blessing.

Ar. Stay, holy Hermit, fair trees rot at heart, And I am evil if this world holds ill.

1 would lay bare my soul of its foul sin, And if there be white shrift for such as me In Heaven's mercy, I would crave it now ; Though little of hope have I, if thou dost hear.

HER. Wouldst thou confess, my son? The Church hath power To white the blackest sinner crawling foul From earth's most sensuous cesspool, doth he but Come in the earnest sorrow of his heart And lay his sins within her holy keeping. But well I know that thou art that great Arthur, The hope of all for succor to this realm: — For other man hath never worn such grace And nobleness of bearing as thou wearest. Fear not, my son; whatever be the sin Of thy hot youth, the past will be forgiven, And holy Church will freely pardon one And all the evil deeds that thou hast done.

Ar. Father, my life is haunted with one thought

That comes between me and my sweetest hopes. In battle's clamor only will it pass, But in my lonelier moments it comes in, — The awful memory of one heinous sin.

Her. Of truth thou hast suffered over-much, my son. What is thy sin?

Ar. One deed beyond all others of my youth, Mad, passionate and wild to savagery: I violated a maid's sanctuary, And afterwards I found — O Christ, forgive me!

Her. Say on!

Ar. She was my sister!

Ar. It will not out. The evil of that night When I, unknowing, did that awful deed, Hath blackened all my future like a web. And when men look up to me as their sun, It makes my life seem like some whited tower Where all is foul and hideous within.

Her. Thou sayest truth, my son, thy sin be heavy.

[Crossing himself.

Ar. O swart, incestuous night, whose bat-like wings O'erspread my life like thunder-gathering cloud, When will thy dawn break glimmering on my soul? Or wilt thou drag thy weary length along And spell thy moments out in hopeless years Until thy black o'erlaps the black of death In that dread journeying where all men go, When all my dreams are spent and smouldered down Like some far ruined sunset at life's edge, And hope deferred fades out in endless sleep? O holy man, forgive mine impious presence, Thy blessed office naught availeth me.

Her. Nay, son, grieve not as one who hath no hope. Though awesome be this youthful sin of thine, Whose memory blurs thy loftier, holier dreams, Let not this one sin lead thee to blaspheme

Thus ignorantly holy Church's power.

Thy very sorrow half absolveth thee.

In name of Him who blessed the dying thief,

I bid thee look no longer at thy past,

Which eateth like some canker at thy heart;

Redeem thy past in deeds of future good.

Deem'st thy high dreams were given thee for nought?

There is a noble doom about thy face,

A writing writ of God, that telleth me

That thou art not a common ordered man,

But one ordained as lofty ones of old

For some great, lofty cause. Lift up thy heart;

Earth hath a need of thee, thy people call,

Wrongs long unrighted, evils long unplucked,

All cry to thee for judgment. Palsy not

The strength of thy great future brooding on

An indiscretion of thy savage past.

Ar. And is it of God, O Father, thinkest thou?

HER. Yea, my son; As are all hope and sunshine. What is life — But spring unmindful of bleak winter-time, Joying in living, mindless of old death ; Youth dead to sorrow, age to coming night. Look up, forget thine evil, drink new faith From this glad parable of the wakening year. The Church's arms are round thee; build new hope In this poor Kingdom as the quickening year Hath made this wrinkled earth forget old sorrows; Be this but thine to do, and thou art pardoned.

Ar. Oh, blessed be thy counsel ! Even now I feel new joys run riot in my heart. Old hopes long faded built on my high dreams ! The old dread sorrow lightens, it is gone, And I go forth a shrived soul even now. Yea, hear me, Father, now I consecrate This my poor life to this great kingdom's weal, And be my God but with me, I will raise This head of sorrows out of clouds of ill,

MOEDEED

And build a splendor of my chastened will. Thy blessing, Father!

HER. (raises his hand in blessing) Go forth from hence,

Great Arthur, keeper of thy people's peace. Go forth to right all wrong and guard all right, In home and mart, in castle and in cot, Meting the same to high and lowly lot. Go forth in name of God to build a realm Built up on chastity and noble deeds, Where womanhood is gentle and austere, And manhood strong in its great innocence. Go, blessed of God and all thy fellow-men, Go in the strength of thy most high resolve, Thou wondrous soul, unto thy wondrous work, The glory of all the after days to be. Ar. Amen! Amen!!

Curtain.

ACT I. Scene 2.

Place — Camelot. (Arthur crowned King.)

Enter Merlin and Mordred, a hunchback, the King's illegitimate son. Outside a great clamor of voices is heard of " Arthur ! Long live King Arthur !"

MEr. Now tarry here aside while I prepare The King for this thy filial audience.

Mor. O mighty Merlin, I fear me all thine arts That compass ocean, air and deepest mine, And have command of subtlest sciences, Have never found the power to brew a charm, A sovereign draught of distillation rare, To warm a father's heart toward such as me.

MER. Thou much mistakest, Mordred, he is noble. This too-long thought on thine infirmity Hath made thy mind, which is as clear as glass, Ensickly all things that it looks upon. When Arthur, thy great father, knows his son, His nobleness of heart will plead with him; And when he sees what I have seen in thee, A subtle greatness of the inner spirit, Greater than even I, wise Merlin, have, That prophesies a power for good or ill Such as is rare 'mid men in this our age, He will forget that outward lack of mould In the strong, god-like nobleness within.

Mor. Ah, Merlin, would my spirit thou wert right, And I would show him such a son's true love, And consecrate this subtlety within me, To build a fence of safety round his glory. But something tells me, some weird, evil doom, That sits about my heart by day and night, An awful presence that will never flit, That he will never love me; yea, that more, Of all things hateful to him on this earth, My presence the most hateful. O great Mage, I know that thou art skilful in thine age, And subtle in all knowledges of lore, But there lies in recesses of the heart, That hath known bitter sorrow such as mine, A deeper wisdom intuition breeds, That thou hast never sounded in thy lore.

Me;r. Hast seen this presence whereof thou dost speak ?

Mor. Yea, only as a look that haunteth faces. M£r. Faces ?

Mor. I never saw it in my poor dog's face, When he hath climbed my knees to lick my hand. I never saw it in the mirrored peace That brims the beauty of a forest pool,

Nor in the wise regard of mighty nature. But in the face of man I oft have seen it.

MER. What hast thou seen? This wisdom would I know.

Mor. I never saw it in thy look, O Mage, But something sweeter, much akin, called pity, But once I woke a flower-eyed little maid, Who slumbered 'mid the daisies by a stream; She seemed the summer day incarnate there With her sweet, innocent, unconscious face, So like a flower herself amid the flowers; And I so lonely there in all that vast, And thinking ('twas only but a boy's light thought, With some deep other thought beyond mine age) To wake this human summer-morn to life, And know this June-day conscious of its joy; But when I bent and touched her on the arm, I only woke a living terror there Of eyes and limbs that fled from my amaze. I saw it once within the priestman's face The only and the last time I was shriven. I have no need for shriving priestmen since. My spirit tells me if they hold no power To conjure out that devil in themselves, That darting horror that offends mine eyes, They ne'er can cast the devils from this life, And all their vaunts but jugglers' juggling lies.

MER. O sad, warped youth, aged before thy time, With that worst, saddest of wisdoms on this earth, The knowledge of thine own deformity!

[Trumpets without.

Back, ,Mordred, back! here cometh our lord, the King!

Enter Arthur in his state robes.

Ar. And now, wise Merlin, wisest of this earth, Here cometh thine Arthur, decked in his first glory. So great hath been the splendor of this day That all my heart brims with the wine of it.

,MER. Yea, King, thy horn of glory doth enlarge, Thy sun of splendor toppeth the future's marge, May all bright auspices attend its setting.

Ar. And now, wise Mage, what hath thy will with me? I am thine Arthur even being King, For thou hast made me, next to that weird fate That sat about the mystery of my getting, And the sweet fostership of Holy Church, Which hath forgiven my great youthful sin And set her seal of favor on my deeds. All present splendors thou hast prophesied, And made the people take me for their King, Hast pointed out my fitness for this office, And lifted Arthur from a cloud of sorrows Unto the golden glories of a throne. To-day the fealty of an hundred Earls Which thou hast garnered to my new-made kingdom Hath honored me and made me thrice a King. Yea, well say, Merlin, that my horn is full To plenty with the blessed hopes of earth, And all of this I owe unto thy favor. My thunder-clouds are past, my future clear As yon blue summer sky. No evil lurks In secret now to strike at this my glory, Unless a bolt fell from yon dazzling blue!

[Thunder heard in the distance. Arthur staggers back.

A portent! A portent!

,MER. 'Tis nought, O King, but gathering thunderheads

About the thick, close heatings of the west, The muttered portent of a summer shower. 'Tis but a blackness that will quickly pass And leave a blessing on the fields and woods. Fear not such signs as nature's seeming anger. I come to thee upon a graver matter.

Ar. Yea, Merlin! speak on.

MER. Arthur, I speak now to no puling youth,

MORDEED

No mere sin-pricked conscience in a human form, But bring a kingly matter to a king, Whereof that he may do the kingliest deed That he may hap on in the unknown lease Of all his kingship. I have kept this matter, The deepest and the dreadest concerning thee And all the workings of thy coming fate, Until the hour when thou didst feel thee King In more than seeming outward human choice, And thou wert at thy greatest, even that I, In all his power, might see the King I made, Not in all the glory of his court, His people's laudings sounding in his ears, Not in all the shout of battle victory; But in that dread and secret solemn hour, When some strange doom uplifts its sombre face And man must show his kingship of himself. Ar. Yea, Merlin ! Say on, Merlin, say on !

Me)r. For this same reason I have hid till now The secret from thee that thou hast a son. Ar. A son!

Mkr. Yea, a son!

Ar. Oh cruel! Oh cruel! Oh cruel!

Mer. Yea, more, for knowing all the warm desire That thou hast unto things of beauteous shape, And lovest chiefly what is glad and fair To look upon in nature or human form, Which showeth in thy love for Launcelot —

Ar. Yea, Launcelot ! Would a Launcelot were my son !

Mor. (aside) Ah, me!

JVUr. But knowing further that a deeper feeling, Which holdeth rule in every human heart That knoweth greatness, would uppermost in thee, At knowledge of the fate of thy poor son, Who madeth not himself, but bore thy sin In outward simile in his whole life's being, As Christ did bear men's sins upon the tree;

Who, knowing all the ill that thou hadst done him,

Still had sufficient sense of inward greatness

To love the father who begat him thus ;

I feel, if thou art that great Arthur dreamed

Of me these many years of toil and care

That I have worked to make thee what thou art,

That knowing this son of thine, distorted, wry,

Diminutive in outward human shape,

And void of all those graces thou hast loved

To group about thy visions of thy court,

Hath such a soul within him, like a jewel

In some enchanted casket, that were rare

In all the lore and wisdom of this age,

That thou wouldst love him only all the more

For that poor, wry, misshapen shell of his.

Ar. Oh cruel! cruel! cruel!

Mer. Mordred, come forth!

Enter Mordred, who kneels and tries to cover himself with

his cloak.

Ar. (starts) What be this?

Mer. Mordred, thy son, the heir to thy great realm!

Ar. O black-angered Heaven!

[Falls heavily to the ground.

Mor. Father ! my father ! Merlin, thou hast killed him ! O Merlin, Merlin, thou wert over-cruel!

MER. Better that he were dead a thousand deaths Than this had happened. He is not a king In more than vulgar fancy. In mine eyes With all thy wry, distorted body there, Thou art a thousand times more kingly now Than he or any like him in this realm. And thou wilt be a king yet ere thou diest. O Arthur, thou great Arthur of my dreams, Why didst thou thus unthrone thee, showing bare A thing of clay, where all seemed whitest marble?

Mor. Ha! now he revives. Father!

Ar. (rises and staggers) Ha! yea, that cloud, that cloud about mine eyes!

My crown ! my crown ! Methought I had a crown !

Mer. Yea, of a truth thou hadst one. Ar. And where be it, good father? Mer. Stumbling on sudden to the precipice of a golden opportunity,

Thou loosedst thy kingship and straightway it toppled over.

Ar. And might we not make search, father? Might we not take lights, lights, and go find it?

MER. Not all the lights that light this glowing world Might light thee to it.

Ar. And who art thou that mocketh at me thus?

MER. A shadow.

Ar. And what be I?

Mer. In truth a shadow.

Ar. And that — that blackness? [Pointing at MordrEd. ,MER. A shadow, also ; yea, we all be shadows. Ar. And is there nothing real, nothing tangible in all this mist?

MER. Nay, nothing, save the visions we have lost, The autumn mornings with their frosty prime, The dreams of youth like bells at eventime Ringing their golden longings down the mist.

Ar. And be we dead, father?

Mer. Yea, I am dead to one great hope I had, And thou art dead to what thou mightst have been, And he is dead to what is best of all, The holiest blossom on life's golden tree.

Ar. And what be that, father?

Mer. Love ! Love !

Ar. Then he be greatest?

Me}r. Yea, greater far, though we completed greatness, Than either thou or I could ever be. Ar. Then what be he?

,M£R. He is that rare, great blossom of this life Which mortals call a man.

Ar. A man!

MEr. Yea, a man.

Ar. Why, he is wry, distorted, short of shape, Like some poor twisted root in human form. And I am tall and fair, placed like a king, And yet you make him greater, how be that?

MeX Didst thou but own Goliath's mighty shape, And wert a Balder in thy face and form, With all of heaven's lightnings in thy gaze, Still would his greatness dwarf thee.

Ar. Then what be I?

MER. The wreck of my poor hopes.

Ar. The what?

Mer. The shadow of a king.

Ar. And where may be the king, if I be but the shadow ?

,MER. Gone ! Gone !

He went out in his glory one bright morn, In all the summer splendors long ago, And there, by well-heads of my youth's bright dreams, Be-like he's walking yet.

Mor. O Merlin, wake him! Thou art over-cruel To play thus on his fancy with thine arts.

MDR. And dost thou love him still?

Mor. Yea, love is not a thing so lightly placed That it may perish easy. Thou mayst kill The king in him, thou canst not kill the father. Though thou mightst make me bitter to conspire And topple his great kingdom round his head, Yet I would ever love him 'neath it all. The Arthur of thine ambitions may be dead, But not the Arthur of my childhood's longing, Though this poor King who hunteth his lost crown Be but the walking shape of all those dreams. And temptest thou me, .Merlin, thus to hate?

MOKDEED

MER. Yea, Mordred, I am cruel, I am fate. I tempt thee but to live, and dost thou live, Enalienate from all this love of earth, And they but crumble this phantom round their heads. Thou art the key by which I may unlock The lock that I have made with mine own hands. And if thou ever want'st an instrument, A dagger wherewith to stab this paltry realm, Use Vivien.

Mor. Vivien !

MER. Yea, Vivien. There is naught on earth That cuts so sharp the thews of love and hate And those poor brittle thongs that bind men up In that strange bundle called society, Like the sharp acids nature hath distilled From out the foiled hates of an evil woman. (to the King) Ho! ho! Arthur! Great King Arthur! Knowest thou me, Merlin?

Ar. Yea, Merlin, it is thou, and I the King, Waking, it seemeth, from an evil dream.

MER. Yea, King, we have all awakened.

Ar. Ha! where is my crown?

Mor. You dropped it when you fainted, sire.

[Kneels and presents it.

Here is thy crown, father.

Ar. Father! I know all now. It cometh back. And this my son? O Merlin, had I known That thou didst hate me and would use me thus!

MER. I hate thee not, O King, nor do I love. I loved an Arthur once, a phantom king, Whom I did build on pinnacles of glory. But he hath now long vanished, and I go, Like many another who hath wrecked his hopes On some false shore of human delusiveness, To bury my pinchbeck jewels in that pit That men call black oblivion. No, proud Arthur, I am much over-old for loves or hates,

My days are past, my mission done on earth ; I leave thee one here, though, whose love or hate Is more to thee than mine could ever be. 'Twixt thee and him there are such subtle webs Of destiny, it needeth no magician To prophesy the running of those threads That weave the warp of your two destinies. Farewell, Arthur! Mordred, fare thee well!

Ar. Stay, stay, Merlin! I have need of thee.

[Exit Msrun.

Curtain.

ACT I. Scsne 3.

Place; — A room in the castle at Camelot.

Enter Dagon^t, the King's fool.

Dag. Meseems this King is like an April week. But yestermorn he was all smiles and sun, And now he skulks and prowls and scowls and mopes, As though existence were a draggled pond In dirty weather.

Enter Vivian.

Viv. And thou, fool, but a wry toad on its edge.

Dag. And thou the snake's head lifted in the sedge, Aye, sweet Vivien.

Viv. Why snakest thou me, fool? Methought that thou favoredst me?

Dag. Aye, so I do. Thou coilest round my heart, The sweetest, wisest serpent in this world. Thou charmest me with those dazzling eyes o' thine. And though the blessed bread were yet in mouth, I'd go to Hell to do a deed for thee.

And yet thou art a snake, as well thou knowest. Is it not so, sweet Vivien?

Viv. Canst thou be wise for once, my Dagonet? Yea, let me teach thee.

Dag. What is it to be wise?

Viv. To leave aside that mummer's lightsome talk, And show a front of silent dignity.

Dag. Like the King?

Viv. Aye, like the King.

Dag. Then to be wise is to be like the King, To be a cup of summer wine to-day, Anon a dish of lonesome woe to-morrow. I love not much this wisdom thou dost teach, These high come-ups and downs they like me not. I am too much a fool to learn thy lesson. [Sings.

And who'd be wise

And full of sighs, And care and evil borrow;

When to be a fool

Is to go to school To Happy-go-luck-to-morrow ?

Who'd tread the road,

And feel the goad, And bear the sweatsome burden;

When loves are light,

And paths are bright Of folly's pleasant guerdon?

Sigh while we may,

We cannot stay The sun, nor hold its shining;

So joy the nonce,

We live but once, And die for all our pining.

Who'd be a king

And wear a ring And age his youth with sorrow;

When to be a fool

Is to go to school To Happy-go-luck-to-morrow ?

Viv. Aye, Dagonet, thou art indeed a happy fool. Wilt thou show me how to make love?

Dag. (kneels in mock humility) Sweet Vivien, I am

thy knight.

Viv. It is all thou canst say?

Dag. What wouldst thou have more? Viv. Oh, lovers' talk.

Dag. Thou meanest as lovers speak? Viv. Yea.

Dag. After wedding or afore, sweet Vivien?

Viv. Afore, of course, stupid fool.

Dag. (folds his hands and recites solemnly)

Butter frups and mumble rings, Whirligigs and winter-greens, Turnip-tops and other things, I love thee ! Spindle-spouts and turtles' eggs, Mutton-chops and milk-stools' legs, Heigh ho! I love thee!

Viv. And now thou art the fool in earnest.

Dag. Yea, and the better lover.

Viv. And what after the wedding, thou wise fool?

Dag. What saith the pot to the egg that is boiled therein,

The floor to the mop that hath scrubbed it, The rain to the moist earth, And the bird's nest to the empty shell? Learn, and thou shalt find it.

MOEDEED

Viv. And hadst thou never a lover's longing, fool? Dag. Yea, but I cured me.

Viv. Wilt thou give me that receipt, Dagonet? Dag. I filled my mouth wi' honey, and my couch wi' prickles, And went asleep on't.

[Vivien laughs and retires behind the curtain.

Dag. Yea, woe is me, is me, poor Dagonet! I hate myself and yet I fain must smile And. play the thistle-down and dandy-puff, The foolish froth at edge of flagonets; And all the while see me a tortured torrent Winding down in darks of its own sorrow. Yea, Dagonet, thou art too much the fool, Like the great King and all the other fools, To be the thistle-down thou fain wouldst seem, For thou art also anchored by the heels To some sore, eating iron of thy desire.

Enter King Arthur.

Ar. Well, fool, what mummeries now? Dag. I be holding a black Friday service, Sir King. Ar. And what sayest thou in thy supplications? Dag. I think on thee, Sir King, and I think on poor Dagonet,

And I say, Lord have mercy upon us ! Ar. A pious wish, Sir Fool, but why pitiest thou me? Dag. For thy poverty, sire.

Ar. Why poverty, fool?

Dag. Yea, King, thou hast a crown, thou hast wealth, And power and lands, and yet thou lackest The cheapest commodity i' the whole world.

Ar. And what be that, fool ?

Dag. (going out) Sunshine, Sir King, that be the cheapest commodity.

Enter Launcbxot.

Laun. Sire !

Ar. Launcelot, sit here and let's forget That I am king and thou the greatest knight In this most mighty realm. Let us deem Me but the Arthur of old days, and thou The sunny Launcelot who was fain to shrive His sorrowful Arthur from his darker moods, And make a glow about the future's countenance.

Laun. Yea, King, but methought thou sentest for me

with most urgent commands.

Ar. Yea, most urgent.

Laun. The knights and men-at-arms await below, And all the splendid cortege thou hast ordered, With retinue befitting thy commands. God's benison go with thee, great Arthur, This most auspicious day thou goest forth To meet the high and beauteous Guinevere, Thy chosen mate and queen of this fair realm.

Ar. I go not forth !

Laun. Thou goest not, and why?

Ar. Deem it not strange, my Launcelot, that I sit Here thus disconsolate my betrothal morn, Nor over-eager for to play the lover And, decked in splendor, go to meet the queen. Launcelot, thine Arthur hath a sorrow. Hast seen my son Mordred?

Laun. Yea, Arthur, I have seen this .Mordred. Yea, my King, thou hast indeed a sorrow, And could thy Launcelot but help thee bear it!