Arthur. Oh swart, incestuous night whose bat-like wings

O’er-spread my life like thunder-gathering cloud,

When will thy dawn break glimmering on my soul?

Or wilt thou drag thy weary length along

And spell thy moments out in hopeless years

Until thy black o’er-laps the black of death

In that dread journeying where all men go,

When all my dreams are spent and smouldered down

Like some far ruined sunset at life’s ebb,

And hope deferred fades out in endless sleep?

O holy man forgive mine impious presence,

Thy blessed office naught availeth me.

Hermit. Nay son grieve not as one who hath no hope.

Though awsome be this youthful sin of thine,

Whose memory blurs thy loftier, holier dreams,

Let not this one sin lead thee to blaspheme

[Pg 4]

[Pg 4]

Thus ignorantly holy Church’s power.

Thy very sorrow half absolveth thee.

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