Merlin. I hate thee not, King Arthur, nor do I love.
I loved an Arthur once, a phantom king,
Whom I did build on pinnacles of glory.
But he hath now long vanished, and I go,
Like many another who hath wrecked his hopes
On some false shore of human delusiveness,
To bury my pinch-beck jewels in that pit
That men call black oblivion. No, proud Arthur,
I am much over old for loves or hates,