What ails Me, sister? Were the heart in me no higher Than his who heeds no more than harpers’ tales Such griefs as set a sister’s heart on fire—

GUENDOLEN.

GUENDOLEN.

Then were my brother now at rest in Wales, And royal.

CAMBER.

CAMBER.

Am I less than royal here?

GUENDOLEN.

GUENDOLEN.

Even here as there alike, sir.

CAMBER.

CAMBER.

Dost thou fear Nothing?

GUENDOLEN.

GUENDOLEN.

My princely cousin, not indeed Much that might hap at word or will of thine.

CAMBER.

CAMBER.

Ay—meanest am I of my father’s seed, If men misjudge not, cousin; and Locrine Noblest.

GUENDOLEN.

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