To make a stir to remedy my wrongs.
And yet my loftier nature cries me no.
Oh! Mordred, what art thou, mis-shapen devil?
Thou wilt be sweet as Launcelot in the grave,
Though thou canst never smile on Guinevere,
Or other star of brightness, stand by Arthur
Like lofty pine that girds the hills of snow.
Yea, I am half constrained to be a devil,
And take this mighty kingdom by the walls,
And shake it till its deep foundations thunder.