So too much love to hover in the heavens
Made him to pay the price of rash attempts.
Arthur. What ruth (ah), rent the woful father’s heart,
That saw himself thus made a sonless sire!
Well, since both heavens and hell conspir’d in one
To make our ends a mirror to the world,
Both of incestuous life and wicked birth,
Would gods the fates, that link’d our faults alike,
Had also fram’d our minds of friendlier moulds!
That as our lineage had approach’d too near,