The lock that I have made with mine own hands.

And if thou ever want’st an instrument,

A dagger wherewith to stab this paltry realm,

Use Vivien.

Mordred. Vivien!

Merlin. Yea Vivien. There is naught on all this earth

That cuts so sharp the thews of love and hate

And those poor brittle thongs that bind men up

In that strange bundle called society,

Like the sharp acids nature hath distilled

From out the foiled hates of an evil woman.

(To the king.) Ho! ho! Arthur! Great King

Arthur. Knowest thou me, Merlin?

Arthur. Yea, Merlin it is thou, and I the King,

Waking it seemeth from an evil dream.

Merlin. Yea, king we have all awakened.

Arthur. Ha! where is my crown?

Mordred. You dropped it when you fainted sire,

[Kneels and presents it.

Here is thy crown, Father.

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