Well. Heaven hath no power to hurt me more: and hell No fire to fear. The world I dwelt in died With my dead father. King, thy world is wide Wherein thy soul rejoicingly puts trust: But mine is strait, and built by death of dust.

LOCRINE.

LOCRINE.

Thy sire, mine uncle, stood the sole man, then, That held thy life up happy? Guendolen, Hast thou nor child nor husband—or are we Worth no remembrance more at all of thee?

GUENDOLEN.

GUENDOLEN.

Thy speech is sweet; thine eyes are flowers that shine: If ever siren bare a son, Locrine, To reign in some green island and bear sway On shores more shining than the front of day And cliffs whose brightness dulls the morning’s brow, That son of sorceries and of seas art thou.

LOCRINE.

LOCRINE.

Nay, now thy tongue it is that plays on men; And yet no siren’s honey, Guendolen, Is this fair speech, though soft as breathes the south, Which thus I kiss to silence on thy mouth.

GUENDOLEN.

GUENDOLEN.

Thy soul is softer than this boy’s of thine: His heart is all toward battle. Was it mine That put such fire in his? for none that heard Thy flatteries—nay, I take not back the word— A flattering lover lives my loving lord— Could guess thine hand so great with spear or sword.

LOCRINE.

LOCRINE.

What have I done for thee to mock with praise And make the boy’s eyes widen? All my days Are worth not all a week, if war be all, Of his that loved no bloodless festival— Thy sire, and sire of slaughters: this was one Who craved no more of comfort from the sun But light to lighten him toward battle: I Love no such life as bids men kill or die.

GUENDOLEN.

GUENDOLEN.

Wert thou not woman more in word than act, Then unrevenged thy brother Albanact Had given his blood to guard his realm and thine: But he that slew him found thy stroke, Locrine, Strong as 

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