Thus to forbid me land? to slay my friends?
To make their blood distain my country shores?
My son (belike), lest that our force should faint
For want of wars, prepar’d us wars himself.
He thought (perhaps) it mought impair our fame,
If none rebell’d, whose foil might praise our power.
Is this the fruit of Mordred’s forward youth
And tender age, discreet beyond his years?
O false and guileful life! O crafty world!
How cunningly convey’st thou fraud unseen!