Wert thou a man, and not that which thou art,
With this quick blade I’d stop thy craven heart.
Mordred. There is nought more to do but to slay me.
(Bares his breast.) Slay me ere I kill myself.
Vivien. Nay! Nay!
Laun. Kill thyself, Prince, Launcelot fights with men!
(To the Queen.) I will follow you, my lady.
Exit Launcelot and the Queen.
Mordred. (Flings his sword away.) All sweet compassions, pityings and resolves
That dwelt in Mordred’s breast are slain at last,