Mordred. O mighty Merlin, I fear me all thine arts
That compass ocean, air, and deepest mine,
And have command of subtlest sciences,
Have never found the power to brew a charm,
A Sovereign draught of distillation rare,
To warm a Father’s heart toward such as me.
Merlin. Thou much mistakest Mordred, he is noble.
This too-long thought on thine infirmity,
Hath made thy mind, which is as clear as glass,
Ensickly all things that it looks upon.