Unto the golden glories of a throne.

To-day the fealty of an hundred Earls

Which thou hast garnered to my new-made kingdom

Hath honored me and made me thrice a King.

Yea, well say Merlin that my horn is full

To plenty with the blessed hopes of earth,

And all of this I owe unto thy favor.

My thunder-clouds are past, my future clear

As yon, blue summer sky. No evil lurks

In secret for to strike at this my glory,

Unless a bolt fell from yon dazzling blue!

[Thunder heard in the distance—Arthur staggers back

Arthur

A portent! A portent!

Merlin. ’Tis nought, O King, but gathering thunderheads

About the thick, close heatings of the west,

The muttered portent of a summer shower.

’Tis but a blackness that will quickly pass

And leave a blessing on the fields and woods.

Fear not such signs as nature’s seeming anger.

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