Hide Arthur’s woe in your convenient black.
Rise not, O, pitiless Day with searching white,
Showing abroad catastrophe and doom.
Hark ’tis the messenger. Now my royal soul,
Is it black or white, is it death or life to thee?
(Enter Messenger.) Sire!
Arthur. Speak! Is it calamity?
Mess. Yea, Sire, it is calamity, Sir Launcelot ta’en,—
Arthur. In the Queen’s chamber?