Laun. Why doth not nature crack and groan?
Guin. (Crawls to his feet.) Oh be thou fiend or imp or Launcelot.
Thy kisses burn me even through this mist.
Laun. Yea, thou dost move me as never woman hath moved.
Oh would to God that we had never loved.
Then thou wouldst have been Guinevere, and I Launcelot.
Guin. What be we now?
Laun. Damned souls.
Guin. Then sweet, my love, it were thus to be damned.
Laun. Oh thou must go, proud Guinevere, tomorrow