GUENDOLEN.

GUENDOLEN.

Nought save grief and love; Locrine, A grievous love, a loving grief is mine. Here stands my husband: there my father lies: I know not if there live in either’s eyes More love, more life of comfort. This our son Loves me: but is there else left living one That loves me back as I love?

LOCRINE.

LOCRINE.

Nay, but how Has this wild question fired thine heart?

GUENDOLEN.

GUENDOLEN.

Not thou! No part have I—nay, never had I part— Our child that hears me knows it—in thine heart. Thy sire it was that bade our hands be one For love of mine, his brother: thou, his son, Didst give not—no—but yield thy hand to mine, To mine thy lips—not thee to me, Locrine. Thy heart has dwelt far off me all these years; Yet have I never sought with smiles or tears To lure or melt it meward. I have borne— I that have borne to thee this boy—thy scorn, Thy gentleness, thy tender words that bite More deep than shame would, shouldst thou spurn or smite These limbs and lips made thine by contract—made No wife’s, no queen’s—a servant’s—nay, thy shade. The shadow am I, my lord and king, of thee, Who art spirit and substance, body and soul to me. And now,—nay, speak not—now my sire is dead Thou think’st to cast me crownless from thy bed Wherein I brought thee forth a son that now Shall perish with me, if thou wilt—and thou Shalt live and laugh to think of us—or yet Play faith more foul—play falser, and forget.

LOCRINE.

LOCRINE.

Sharp grief has crazed thy brain. Thou knowest of me—

GUENDOLEN.

GUENDOLEN.

I know that nought I know, Locrine, of thee.

LOCRINE.

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