Hath sent your brother Gawin, Alban king,
To treat of truce, and to imparle of peace.
Mordred. Speak, brother: what commandment sends our sire?
What message do you bring? My life or death?
Gawin. A message far unmeet, most needful tho’.
The sire commands not where the son rebels:
His love descends too deep to wish your death.
Mordred. And mine ascends too high to wish his life.
Gawin. Yet thus he off’reth. Though your faults be great
And most disloyal, to his deep abuse,