And I will be that olden Launcelot

In shape and seeming, though I hold a devil.

Oh never more, mine Arthur, will I look

With peace and frankness on thy noble face.

’Twixt thee and me a wall is builded up

Of hideous evil. Guinevere, my love,

We were damned long ago, and this be hell.

Guin. Oh most unfortunate me, thou art not Arthur,

And I am Guinevere and I have loved.

Though I go morrow morn to Camelot

And place my hand in his and pledge him mine,

Not all the clamor of glad abbey-bells,

Or heavenward incense, may kill out the fever

Of thy hot kisses on my burning lips.

I am not Arthur’s. He is but a name,

A ringing doom that haunts me round the world.

Launcelot, we were wedded long ago

Before this life in some old Venus garden,

And this brief meeting but re-memory

Awakening from some cursed doze of life

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