GUENDOLEN. GUENDOLEN. Nay, all its life of light was wellnigh done. LOCRINE. LOCRINE. If all on thee its light and life were shed And darkness on thy birthday struck it dead, It died most happy, leaving life and light More fair and full in loves more thankful sight. GUENDOLEN. GUENDOLEN. Art thou so thankful, king, for love’s kind sake? Would I were worthier thanks like these I take! For thanks I cannot render thee again. LOCRINE. LOCRINE. Too heavy sits thy sorrow, Guendolen, Upon thy spirit of life: I bid thee not Take comfort while the fire of grief is hot Still at thine heart, and scarce thy last keen tear Dried: yet the gods have left thee comfort here. GUENDOLEN. GUENDOLEN. Comfort? In thee, fair cousin—or my son? LOCRINE. LOCRINE. What hast thou done, Madan, or left undone? Toward thee and me thy mother’s mood to-day Seems less than loving. MADAN. MADAN.
Prev.
Back
Top