should love thee as thy sire’s Loved him. Thou art worth a woman—heart for heart.

ALBOVINE.

ALBOVINE.

My sire’s wife loved him? Hers he had not slain. Would God I might but die and burn in hell And know my love had loved me!

NARSETES.

NARSETES.

Is thy name Babe? Sweet are babes as flowers that wed the sun, But man may be not born a babe again, And less than man may woman. Rosamund Stands radiant now in royal pride of place As wife of thine and queen of Lombards—not Cunimund’s daughter. Hadst thou slain her sire Shamefully, shame were thine to have sought her hand And shame were hers to love thee: but he died Manfully, by thy mightier hand than his Manfully mastered. War, born blind as fire, Fed not as fire upon her: many a maid As royal dies disrobed of all but shame And even to death burnt up for shame’s sake: she Lives, by thy grace, imperial.

ALBOVINE.

ALBOVINE.

He or I, Her lord or sire, which hath most part in her, This hour shall try between us.

Enter Rosamund.

Rosamund

ROSAMUND.

ROSAMUND.

Royal lord, Thy wedded handmaid craves of thee a grace.

ALBOVINE.

ALBOVINE.

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