DEBON. Has my master found my faith a lie Once all these years through? have I strayed or slept Once, when he bade me watch? what proof has leapt At last to light against me? LOCRINE. LOCRINE. Surely, none. Weep not. DEBON. DEBON. My lord’s grey vassal hath not wept Once, even since darkness covered from the sun The woman’s face—the sole sweet wifelike one— Whose memory holds his heart yet fast: but now Tears, were old age not poor in tears, might run Free as the words that bid his stricken brow Burn and bow down to hear them. LOCRINE. LOCRINE. Hast not thou Held counsel—played the talebearer whose tales Bear plague abroad and poison, knowing not how— Not with my wife nor brother? DEBON. DEBON. Nought avails Falsehood: and truth it is, the king of Wales So plied me, sir, with force of craft and threat— LOCRINE. LOCRINE. That thou, whose faith swerves never, flags nor fails Nor falters, being as stars are loyal, yet Wast found as those that fall from heaven, forget Their station, shoot and shudder down to death Deep as the pit of hell? What snares were set To take thy soul—what mist of treasonous breath Made blind in thee the sense that quickeneth In true men’s inward eyesight, when they know And know not how they know the word it saith, The warning word that whispers loud or low— I ask not: be it enough these things are so. Thou hast played me false. DEBON.
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