Take this ring, Knight, in memory of thy King,
(Gives him a ring.) Survive he not the morrow.
Sir B. God keep thee, Sire!
[Exit Sir Bedivere.
Arthur. Now what will morrow’s dawn-rise bring to Arthur?
Will it bring bloody victory or defeat?
How like an autumn wood is stript my glory,
Who short since was sole monarch of this realm.
Oh! evil Spite, that ruleth this sad world!
Come joy, come hope, there’s nothing sure but death.