Sweet as old hours remembered.
Guenevere (very softly)
Sweet as those
To come.
Launcelot (madly embracing her)
Ah, Guenevere, to suffer so.
I am yours, yours, only yours—(abruptly breaking away)—O God, have pity!
Guenevere
Why should we not take what there is of joy,
So little as there is, so little?