Gwaine. Launcelot, Launcelot, now I cast thee out,
One world won’t hold us!
Mordred. This works my way. O World, thou art moulding swift
To my poor vengeance!
(To Arthur.) Sire what wilt thou do?
Arthur. To arms, to arms, we’ll siege him in his hold.
’Tis death that cures dishonor. He will reap
The swift dread harvest of Heaven’s retribution.
Gwaine. Would Launcelot were but two men, I’d slay him twice.