These lonesome lofty vigils of the heart
Have made men deem me colder. ’Tis my sin!
Oh Launcelot I am blacker than thou knowest!
[Exit Launcelot.
Enter Hermit.
Hermit. And comest thou, my son, for Church’s grace?
Arthur. I come here, Father, for to have me shrived.
[Kneels.
Hermit. Then thou art shriven, such a noble face
Could never harbor evil in its grace.