Merlin. Yea, a man.

Arthur. Why he is wry, distorted, short of shape,

Like some poor twisted root in human form.

And I am tall and fair, placed like a king.

And yet you make him greater, how be that?

Merlin. Didst thou but own Goliath’s mighty shape,

And wert a Balder in thy face and form,

With all of heaven’s lightnings in thy gaze,

Still would his greatness dwarf thee.

Arthur. Then what be I?

Merlin. The wreck of my poor hopes.

Arthur. The what?

Merlin. The shadow of a king.

Arthur. And where may be the king, if I be but the shadow?

Merlin. Gone! Gone!

He went out in his glory one bright morn,

In all the summer splendors long ago,

And there by well-heads of my youth’s bright dreams,

Be-like he’s walking yet.

Mordred. Oh! Merlin wake him! Thou art over cruel

 Prev. P 24/290 next