I’m not an Adam to be driven out
With flaming brand from thy sweet paradise.
I’d hold thee Guinevere in these mine arms,
Though on each side, asquare, a “shalt not” stood.
I’d fight ’gainst all, aye Arthur, mine old self.
Oh Guinevere, this love hath made me mad.
Oh were’t that all were changed in nature’s course.
That I were not myself but some rude shape.
That thou wert not so sweet to look upon,
But sour and crabbed and old for Arthur’s sake,