Not you—that are but words.
[She rushes out in great anger.
Launcelot
Didst thou make woman, God,
As thou hast made fire, earthquake, and sea-storm,
To raise a beauty of terror and overthrow
Great realms and reason’s self? Comes she again,
The flame is on the wind and I am straw.
I’m in the net. Oh for an enemy
To hurl at! Dogs, would they betray their King,