Mordred. Yea, ask the rack for mercy when it racks,
Or seek for honey in the aspick’s sting!
Yea, more, I tell thee plainly to thy face,
Guinevere makes hell within my breast,
And thou, my slave, wilt help me to her arms.
Vivien. One little smile, one little word of peace.
Mordred. Nay, silence, or a curse! Wilt thou do this?
Vivien. Thou knowest I will, let me but touch thy hand!
Trampled on, despised, I love thee still.