Thou dost well. I had liefer cast my soul alive to hell Than play a false man false. But were he true And I the traitor—then what heaven should do I wot not, but myself, being once awake Out of that treasonous trance, were fain to slake With all my blood the fire of shame wherein My soul should burn me living in my sin.

GUENDOLEN.

GUENDOLEN.

Thy soul? Yea, there—how knowest thou, boy, so well?— The fire is lit that feeds the fires of hell. Mine is aflame this long time now—but thine— O, how shall God forgive thee this, Locrine, That thou, for shame of these thy treasons done, Hast rent the soul in sunder of thy son?

MADAN.

MADAN.

My heart is whole yet, though thy speech be fire Whose flame lays hold upon it. Hath my sire Wronged thee?

GUENDOLEN.

GUENDOLEN.

Nay, child, I lied—I did but rave— I jested—was my face, then, sad and grave, When most I jested with thee? Child, my brain Is wearied, and my heart worn down with pain: I thought awhile, for very sorrow’s sake, To play with sorrow—try thy spirit, and take Comfort—God knows I know not what I said, My father, whom I loved, being newly dead.

MADAN.

MADAN.

I pray thee that thou jest with me no more Thus.

GUENDOLEN.

GUENDOLEN.

Dost thou now believe me?

MADAN.

MADAN.

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