DEBON. DEBON. Yea. Troy, ere her towers dropped hurtling down in flame, Bare not a son more noble than the sire Whose son begat thy father. Shame it were Beyond all record in the world of shame, If they that hither bore in heart that fire Which none save men of heavenly heart may bear Had left no sign, though Troy were spoiled and sacked, That heavenly was the seed they saved. CAMBER. CAMBER. No sign? Though nought my fame be,—though no praise of mine Be worth men’s tongues for word or thought or act— Shall fame forget my brother Albanact, Or how those Huns who drank his blood for wine Poured forth their own for offering to Locrine? Though all the soundless maze of time were tracked, No men should man find nobler. DEBON. DEBON. Surely none. No man loved ever more than I thy brothers, Prince. CAMBER. CAMBER. Ay—for them thy love is bright like spring, And colder toward me than the wintering sun. What am I less—what less am I than others, That thus thy tongue discrowns my name of king, Dethrones my title, disanoints my state, And pricks me down but petty prince? DEBON. DEBON. My lord— CAMBER. CAMBER. Ay? must my name among their names stand scored Who keep my brother’s door or guard his gate? A lordling—princeling—one that stands to wait— That lights him back to bed or serves at board. Old man, if yet thy foundering brain record Aught—if thou know that once my sire was great, Then must thou know he left no less to me, His youngest, than to those my brethren born, Kingship. DEBON. DEBON.
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