wed my grief awhile to thine For love’s sake and for comfort’s—

GUENDOLEN.

GUENDOLEN.

Thou, Locrine? Today thou knowest not, nor wilt learn tomorrow, The secret sense of such a word as sorrow. Thy spirit is soft and sweet: I well believe Thou wouldst, but well I know thou canst not grieve. The tears like fire, the fire that burns up tears, The blind wild woe that seals up eyes and ears, The sound of raging silence in the brain That utters things unutterable for pain, The thirst at heart that cries on death for ease, What knows thy soul’s live sense of pangs like these?

LOCRINE.

LOCRINE.

Is no love left thee then for comfort?

GUENDOLEN.

GUENDOLEN.

Thine?

LOCRINE.

LOCRINE.

Thy son’s may serve thee, though thou mock at mine.

GUENDOLEN.

GUENDOLEN.

Ay—when he comes again from Cornwall.

LOCRINE.

LOCRINE.

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