LOCRINE. I sware not so to her. Thou knowest— ESTRILD. ESTRILD. Not I. Thou knowest that I know nothing. LOCRINE. LOCRINE. Nay, I know That nothing lives under the sweet blue sky Worth thy sweet heeding, wouldst thou think but so, Save love—wherewith thou seest thy world fulfilled. ESTRILD. ESTRILD. Ay,—would I see but with thine eyes. LOCRINE. LOCRINE. Estrild, Estrild! ESTRILD. ESTRILD. No soft reiterance of my name Can sing my sorrow down that comes and goes And colours hope with fear and love with shame. Rose hast thou called me: were I like the rose, Happier were I than woman: she survives Not by one hour, like us of longer lives, The sun she lives in and the love he gives And takes away: but we, when love grows sere, Live yet, while trust in love no longer lives, Nor drink for comfort with the dying year Death. LOCRINE. LOCRINE. Wouldst thou drink forgetfulness for wine To
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