GUENDOLEN.

Thou liest.

MADAN.

MADAN.

If then thy speech rang true, Why, now it rings not false.

GUENDOLEN.

GUENDOLEN.

Thou art treacherous too— His heart, thy father’s very heart is thine— O, well beseems it, meet it is, Locrine, That liar and traitor and changeling he should be Who, though I bare him, was begot by thee.

MADAN.

MADAN.

How have I lied, mother? Was this the lie, That thou didst call my father coward, and I Heard?

GUENDOLEN.

GUENDOLEN.

Nay—I did but liken him with one Not all unlike him; thou, my child, his son, Art more unlike thy father.

MADAN.

MADAN.

Was not then, Of all our fathers, all recorded men, The man whose name, thou sayest, is like his name— Paris—a sign in all men’s mouths of shame?

GUENDOLEN.

GUENDOLEN.

Nay, save when heaven would cross him in the fight, He bare him, say the minstrels, as a knight— Yea, like thy father.

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