Where all is foul and hideous hid within.
Hermit. Thou sayest truth, my son, thy sin be heavy.
[Crossing himself.
Arthur. Oh swart, incestuous night whose bat-like wings
O’er-spread my life like thunder-gathering cloud,
When will thy dawn break glimmering on my soul?
Or wilt thou drag thy weary length along
And spell thy moments out in hopeless years
Until thy black o’er-laps the black of death
In that dread journeying where all men go,