LOCRINE. Thy grief it is that wounds me—not thy will. GUENDOLEN. GUENDOLEN. Wound? if I would, could I forsooth wound thee? LOCRINE. LOCRINE. I think thou wouldst not, though thine hands were free. GUENDOLEN. GUENDOLEN. These hands, now bound in wedlock fast to thine? LOCRINE. LOCRINE. Yet were thine heart not then dislinked from mine. GUENDOLEN. GUENDOLEN. Nay, life nor death, nor love whose child is hate, May sunder hearts made one but once by fate. Wrath may come down as fire between them—life May bid them yearn for death as man for wife— Grief bid them stoop as son to father—shame Brand them, and memory turn their pulse to flame— Or falsehood change their blood to poisoned wine— Yet all shall rend them not in twain, Locrine. LOCRINE. LOCRINE. Who knows not this? but rather would I know What thought distempers and distunes thy woe. I came to
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