Vivien. Prince, and do you weaken now again?
Mordred. Yea, Vivien, I have only half a heart
For this damned business.
Vivien. ’Tis but a lack of manhood in thy blood,
That runs to water dwelling on puerile things,
Like parent-love and other sickly longings,
Forgotten with forgetting of the paps.
Now me, my memory knows no parentage
Save circumstance and mine own nimble wits.
’Tis but our acts that build the bridge of fate