So much hath rained. Mordred take my crown,
To illegitimacy pass my glory now.
Mordred. Nay Sire! but be a king until thou takest
A King’s dread vengeance on thine enemies.
Arthur. Enemies thou sayest. Who so low,
To stoop to hate this cuckold, shaméd king.
I am a king no more, my Table Round
Is but a stall-yard where the swine of men
Will rend and snarl and tear my glory down.
Enter Gwaine.