But man of rarest compounds moulded up,

And standing on foundations of a soul,

Hath too much of the god within him hid

To need such shallow, cold, inclement gifts.

Your pities would freeze the icéd heart of winter

Colder within its breast.

[Pg 34]

[Pg 34]

Guin. And what art thou, strange heap, that speakest thus unto the queen.

Mordred. Madam, I am one who through this world,

Goeth by ways of sorrow and mishap.

Knowest me not, Madam?

Guin. Thou seemest like some gloomier Dagonet,

Wearing the proud black of some mock tragedy.

Art thou another fool?

Vivien. (Aside.) Ah! that will touch him.

Mordred. A fool, Madam! Callest thou Mordred a fool?

Takest thou him for one who juggles for a court?

A football for the passing to merriment,

Forgotten ere his wit hath passed to sadness.

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