Merlin. The shadow of a king.
Arthur. And where may be the king, if I be but the shadow?
Merlin. Gone! Gone!
He went out in his glory one bright morn,
In all the summer splendors long ago,
And there by well-heads of my youth’s bright dreams,
Be-like he’s walking yet.
Mordred. Oh! Merlin wake him! Thou art over cruel
To play thus on his fancy with thine arts.
Merlin. And dost thou love him still?