What so hath yet been done, proceeds from chance.
Guenevera. The mind and not the chance doth make th’ unchaste.
Angharat. Then is your fault from fate; you rest excus’d.
None can be deemed faulty for her fate.
Guenevera. No fate, but manners fail, when we offend.
Impute mishaps to fates, to manners faults.
Angharat. Love is an error that may blind the best.
Guenevera. A mighty error oft hath seem’d a sin.
My death is vowed, and death must needs take place.
But such a death as stands with just remorse: