Arthur. Yea, well say Father! Parent I this ill
That hath enrent my kingdom all in twain.
In that dread night of my licentious youth,
When I in darkness thy foul shape begot,
I worked a web of blackness round my fate,
And thine, distorted phantom of my sin,
Not all the tolling of sweet abbey-bells
And murmur of masses sung these thousand years,
Can sweep from this doomed kingdom. Father, yea,
There is no truce betwixt us. Thou art Death