Think not of Launcelot ill. Who sought your good, Who fought for you, who toiled, who suffered, who Gave of his marrow and heart’s faith for you? Launcelot! Has Mordred? Not a jot. If ever There is dissension, rancour, envy, strife, Seek Mordred: you will find him under it Like a snake. Mordred loves you not. ARTHUR I know it, And therefore must be just, more strictly just Where I love least. GAWAINE Believe me, Launcelot loves you. ARTHUR Do I not know it? Ah, What curse of a sharp sight is come to me? This very love: why was that pain in it? Why was the torment in that loyal voice? GAWAINE I would I had smitten Mordred to the earth And silenced him for ever. ARTHUR Woman’s love! It is a fire that eats upon the heart. It is past comprehension; it exceeds And feeds upon excess. Duty, duty can be taught and learned; But this love, it is out of all our laws And all our wisdom; none can measure it.... If it be true--ah, Christ, if it be true! GAWAINE Doubt not that it is false. ARTHUR Heaven knows my heart Has nothing willing in it: slow and heavy Moves my thought thither where the fear is, slow And heavy as sea-tides against the wind. Yet little things hurt in the memory, Like a mote pricking in the eyelid: words That may be fondest innocence, and may not. A look, a flying colour in the cheek, Soft hand-takings and silence of farewells; These may be friendship’s language, but if not, Friendship is foul. GAWAINE These are the fears of the dead night that tempt Reason against our own heart’s truth. Now, sleep. ARTHUR I put them from my mind, and then again They creep back, like a stain across the floor. GAWAINE Launcelot’s true, my life on it. Shake this off Like a foul nightmare that the witches send. ARTHUR What days were those when we were young together, The morning of the world! Gawaine, you know How many a time Launcelot took on his shield A blow that might have emptied me of life; At Solway, Celidon, at Badon Hill.... Why should his hand have saved me, why, if.... GAWAINE Ah, Launcelot is the truest knight on earth. ARTHUR And yet he fled from me; fled from himself, If this my hand should suddenly take will, Against my own, to strike at one I loved, It would not more affront my reason. Oh, Gawaine, I love this man. GAWAINE As he loves you. ARTHUR But woman, woman! I am mad to have these thoughts. If it be true, Gawaine, if it be true! GAWAINE It’s false; Mordred shall own it. ARTHUR