All inky poison of soul, even that I,
Who’d trample others, must crush out myself.
Vivien. Yea, Prince, indeed, ’tis seen thou hast a mind
Of subtle working fit to rule a King.
Thou wilt be greater than great Arthur yet,
When thou sittest in his place.
Mordred. Nay woman, tantalize me not with hopes.
’Tis not the splendid end that leads me on.
’Tis but the getting there that Mordred loves.
The mood of one who’d trample on the flowers