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Coward or mad? Which might one call thee rather, whose harsh heart Envenoms so thy tongue toward one that had No thought less kindly—toward even thee that art Kindless—than best beseems a kinsman’s part?

MADAN.

MADAN.

Lay not on me thine own foul shame, whose tongue Would turn my blood to poison, while it stung Thy brother’s fame to death. I know my sire As shame knows thee—and better no man knows Aught.

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Have thy will, then: take thy full desire: Drink dry the draught of ruin: bid all blows Welcome: being harsh with friends, be mild with foes, And give shame thanks for buffets. Yet I thought— But how should help avail where heart is nought?

MADAN.

MADAN.

Yet—thou didst think to help me?

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Kinsman, ay. My hand had held the field beside thine own, And all wild hills that know my rallying cry Had poured forth war for heart’s pure love alone To help thee—wouldst thou heed me—to thy throne.

MADAN.

MADAN.

For pure heart’s love? what wage holds love in fee? Might half my kingdom serve? Nay, mock not me, Fair uncle: should I cleave the crown in twain And gird thy temples with the goodlier half, Think’st thou my debt might so be paid again— Thy sceptre made a more imperial staff Than sways as now thy hill-folk?

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Dost thou laugh? Were this too much for kings to give and take? If warrior Wales do battle for thy sake, Should I that kept thy crown for thee be held Worth less than royal 

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