If then thou thought’st it, both were sore beguiled.

LOCRINE.

LOCRINE.

I thought thee sweeter then than summer doves.

GUENDOLEN.

GUENDOLEN.

Yet not like theirs—woe worth it!—were our loves.

LOCRINE.

LOCRINE.

No—for they meet and flit again apart.

GUENDOLEN.

GUENDOLEN.

And we live linked, inseparate—heart in heart.

LOCRINE.

LOCRINE.

Is this the grief that wrings and vexes thine?

GUENDOLEN.

GUENDOLEN.

Thy mother laughed when thou wast born, Locrine.

LOCRINE.

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