But canst thou love the wry and gnarléd shape
And beetle-browed, night-shaded soul like mine?
I am a toad, a bat, a gnarléd stump.
These hideous in nature are my kin.
Woman, thou liest, when thou speakest of love!
Vivien. Nay, Mordred, do not scorn me! Thou’rt a man
In more than mere out-seeming, ’tis thy fate
Thy whole grim spirit Vivien pitieth.
Would’st thou but love me, Vivien would be