Thy queen, thy slave, the ’venger of thy wrongs,
That call to heaven.
Mordred. Nay, nay, it cannot be, thou wastest words.
I like thee least in this strange mood of thine.
Love is no word for Mordred, rather hate,
And thou wert made for plottings, not for joys.
Yea, we will marry in compact of ill,
And will beget as child, black, black revenge.
This is my mood.
Vivien. Now thou art natural, there is much to do.