thy speech is gentle. LOCRINE. LOCRINE. God assoil The dead our friends and foes! GUENDOLEN. GUENDOLEN. A goodly spoil Was that thine hand made then by Humber’s banks Of all who swelled the Scythian’s riotous ranks With storm of inland surf and surge of steel: None there were left, if tongues ring true, to feel The yoke of days that breathe submissive breath More bitter than the bitterest edge of death. LOCRINE. LOCRINE. None. GUENDOLEN. GUENDOLEN. This was then a day of blood. I heard, But know not whence I caught the wandering word, Strange women were there of that outland crew, Whom ruthlessly thy soldiers ravening slew. LOCRINE. LOCRINE. Nay, Scythians then had we been, worse than they. GUENDOLEN. GUENDOLEN. These that were taken, then, thou didst not slay? LOCRINE.
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