When some strange doom uplifts its sombre face,

And man must show his kingship of himself.

Arthur. Yea Merlin! say on Merlin, say on!

Merlin. For this same reason I have hid till now

The secret from thee that thou hast a son.

Arthur. A son!

Merlin. Yea, a son, by thine own sister.

Arthur. Oh cruel! Oh cruel! Oh cruel!

Merlin. Yea more, for knowing all the warm desire

That thou hast unto things of beauteous shape,

And lovest chiefly what is glad and fair

To look upon in nature or human form,

Which showest in thy love for Launcelot,—

Arthur. Yea, Launcelot! Would a Launcelot were my son.

Mordred. (aside) Ah, me!

Merlin. But knowing further that a deeper feeling,

That holdeth rule in every human heart,

That knoweth greatness, would uppermost in thee,

At knowledge of the fate of thy poor son,

Who madeth not himself but bore thy sin

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