GUENDOLEN.

Child, hast thou looked upon thy grandsire dead?

MADAN.

MADAN.

Ay.

GUENDOLEN.

GUENDOLEN.

Then thou sawest our Britain’s heart and head Death-stricken. Seemed not there my sire to thee More great than thine, or all men living? We Stand shadows of the fathers we survive: Earth bears no more nor sees such births alive.

MADAN.

MADAN.

Why, he was great of thews—and wise, thou say’st: Yet seems my sire to me the fairer-faced— The kinglier and the kindlier.

GUENDOLEN.

GUENDOLEN.

Yea, his eyes Are liker seas that feel the summering skies In concord of sweet colour—and his brow Shines gentler than my father’s ever: thou, So seeing, dost well to hold thy sire so dear.

MADAN.

MADAN.

I said not that his love sat yet so near My heart as thine doth: rather am I thine, Thou knowest, than his.

GUENDOLEN.

GUENDOLEN.

Nay—rather seems Locrine Thy sire than I thy mother.

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