DEBON. Nay, now this long time since We have seen the queen’s face wan with wrath and woe— Have seen her lip writhe and her eyelid wince To take men’s homage—proof that might convince Of grief inexpiable and insatiate shame Her spirit in all men’s judgment. LOCRINE. LOCRINE. But the prince— My brother, whom thou knowest by proof, not fame, A coward whose heart is all a flickering flame That fain would burn and dares not—whence had he The poison that he gave her? Speak: this came By chance—mishap—most haplessly for thee Who hadst my heart in thine, and madest of me No more than might for folly’s sake or fear’s Be bared for even such eyes as his to see? Old friend that wast, I would not see thy tears. God comfort thy dishonour! DEBON. DEBON. All these years Have I not served thee? LOCRINE. LOCRINE. Yea. So cheer thee now. DEBON. DEBON. Cheered be the traitor, whom the true man cheers? Nay, smite me: God can be not such as thou, And will not damn me with forgiveness. How Hast thou such heart, to comfort such as me? God’s thunder were less fearful than the brow That frowns not on thy friend found false to thee. Thy friend—thou said’st—thy friend. Strange friends are we. Nay, slay me then—nay, slay me rather. LOCRINE. LOCRINE. Friend, Take comfort. God’s wide-reaching will shall be Here as of old accomplished, though it blend All good with ill that none may mar or mend. Thy works and mine are ripples on the sea. Take heart, I say: we know not yet their end. [Exeunt. Scene II.—Gardens of the Palace.
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