And be a popular dream, a fancied god,
The victim of a world’s delusiveness,
What manner I am, I were not made for this.
Yea coming struggle I meet thee with a joy
’Twere scarce expected. Madam, I bid farewell.
We worked this masque together, thou and I,
And if it like thee little, blame not Mordred.
I go to-night to meet my Sire in battle.
Such fight will be this kingdom hath not known
In all its sorrows. Britain’s darkest hours