EnterEstrildandSabrina.
SABRINA.
But will my father come not? not today,Mother?
ESTRILD.
God help thee! child, I cannot say.Why this of all days yet in summer’s sight?
SABRINA.
My birthday!
ESTRILD.
That should bring him—if it may.
SABRINA.
May should be must: he must not be away.His faith was pledged to me as king and knight.
ESTRILD.
Small fear he should not keep it—if he might.
SABRINA.
Might! and a king’s might his? do kings bear swayFor nought, that aught should keep him hence till night?Why didst thou bid God help me when I soughtTo know but of his coming?
ESTRILD.
Even for noughtBut laughter even to think how strait a boundShuts in the measure of thy sight and thoughtWho seest not why thy sire hath heed of aughtSave thee and me—nor wherefore men stand crownedAnd girt about with empire.
SABRINA.
Have they foundSuch joy therein as meaner things have wrought?Sing me the song that ripples round and round.
Estrild(sings):—
Had I wist, quoth spring to the swallow,That earth could forget me, kissedBy summer, and lured to followDown ways that I know not, I,My heart should have waxed not high:Mid March would have seen me die,Had I wist.
Had I wist, O spring, said the swallow,That hope was a sunlit mistAnd the faint light heart of it hollow,Thy woods had not heard me sing,Thy winds had not known my wing;It had faltered ere thine did, spring,Had I wist.
SABRINA.
That song is hardly even as wise as I—Nay, very foolishness it is. To dieIn March before its life were well on wing,Before its time and kindly season—whyShould spring be sad—before the swallows fly—Enough to dream of such a wintry thing?Such foolish words were more unmeet for springThan snow for summer when his heart is high;And why should words be foolish when they sing?The song-birds are not.
ESTRILD.
Dost thou understand,Child, what the birds are singing?
SABRINA.
All the landKnows that: the water tells it to the rushesAloud, and lower and softlier to the sand:The flower-fays, lip to lip and hand in hand,Laugh and repeat it all till darkness hushesTheir singing with a word that falls and crushesAll song to silence down the river-strandAnd where the hawthorns hearken for the thrushes.And all the secret sense is sweet and wiseThat sings through all their singing, and repliesWhen we would know if heaven be gay or greyAnd would not open all too soon our eyesTo look perchance on no such happy skies—As sleep brings close and waking blows away.
ESTRILD.
What gives thy fancy faith enough to sayThis?
SABRINA.
Why, meseems the sun would hardly riseElse, nor the world be half so glad of day.
ESTRILD.
Why didst thou crave of me that song, Sabrina?
SABRINA.
Because, methought, though one were king or queenAnd had the world to play with, if one missedWhat most were good to have, such joy, I ween,Were woful as a song with sobs betweenAnd well might wail for ever, ‘Had I wist!’And might my father do but as he list,And make this day what other days have been,I should not shut tonight mine eyes unkissed.
ESTRILD.
I wis thou wouldst not.
SABRINA.
Then I would he wereNo king at all, and save his golden hairWore on his gracious head no golden crown.Must he be king for ever?
ESTRILD.
Not if prayerCould lift from off his heart that crown of careAnd draw him toward us as with music down.
SABRINA.
Not so, but upward to us. He would but frownTo hear thee talk as though the woodlands thereWere built no lordlier than the wide-walled town.Thou knowest, when I desire of him to seeWhat manner of crown that wreath of towers may beThat makes its proud head shine like older Troy’s,His brows are bent even while he laughs on meAnd bids me think no more thereon than he,For flowers are serious things, but towers are toys.
ESTRILD.
Ay, child; his heart was less care’s throne than joy’s,Power’s less than love’s friend ever: and with theeHis mood that plays is blither than a boy’s.
SABRINA.
I would the boy would give the maid her will.
ESTRILD.
Has not thine heart as mine has here its fill?
SABRINA.
So have our hearts while sleeping—till they wake.
ESTRILD.
Too soon is this for waking: sleep thou still.
SABRINA.
Bid then the dawn sleep, and the world lie chill.
ESTRILD.
This nest is warm for one small wood-dove’s sake.
SABRINA.
And warm the world that feels the sundawn break.
ESTRILD.
But hath my fledgeling cushat here slept ill?
SABRINA.
No plaint is this, but pleading, that I make.
ESTRILD.
Plead not against thine own glad life: the pleaWere like a wrangling babe’s that fain would beFree from the help its hardy heart contemns,Free from the hand that guides and guards it, freeTo take its way and sprawl and stumble. See!Have we not here enough of diademsHung high round portals pillared smooth with stemsMore fair than marble?
SABRINA.
This is but the Ley:I fain would look upon the lordlier Thames.
ESTRILD.
A very water-bird thou art: the riverSo draws thee to it that, seeing, my heart-strings quiverAnd yearn with fear lest peril teach thee fearToo late for help or daring to deliver.
SABRINA.
Nay, let the wind make willows weep and shiver:Me shall nor wind nor water, while I hearWhat goodly words saith each in other’s ear.And which is given the gift, and which the giver,I know not, but they take and give good cheer.
ESTRILD.
Howe’er this be, thou hast no heed of mine,To take so little of this life of thineI gave and would not see thee cast awayFor childishness in childhood, though it shineFor me sole comfort, for my lord LocrineChief comfort in the world.
SABRINA.
Nay, mother, nay,Make me not weep with chiding: wilt thou sayI love thee not? Hark! see, my sire for sign!I hear his horse.
ESTRILD.
He comes!
SABRINA.
He comes today!
[Exeunt.
EnterGuendolenandCamber.
GUENDOLEN.
I know not, sir, what ails you to desireSuch audience of me as I give.
CAMBER.
What ailsMe, sister? Were the heart in me no higherThan his who heeds no more than harpers’ talesSuch griefs as set a sister’s heart on fire—
GUENDOLEN.
Then were my brother now at rest in Wales,And royal.
CAMBER.
Am I less than royal here?
GUENDOLEN.
Even here as there alike, sir.
CAMBER.
Dost thou fearNothing?
GUENDOLEN.
My princely cousin, not indeedMuch that might hap at word or will of thine.
CAMBER.
Ay—meanest am I of my father’s seed,If men misjudge not, cousin; and LocrineNoblest.
GUENDOLEN.
Should I gainsay their general rede,My heart would mock me.
CAMBER.
Such a spirit as mineBeing spiritless—my words heartless—mine actsFaint shadows of Locrine’s or Albanact’s?
GUENDOLEN.
Nay—not so much—I said not so. Say thouWhat thou wouldst have—if aught thou wouldst—with me.
CAMBER.
No man might see thine eyes and lips and browWho would not—what he durst not crave of thee.
GUENDOLEN.
Ay, verily? And thy spirit exalts thee nowSo high that these thy words fly forth so free,And fain thine act would follow—flying aboveShame’s reach and fear’s? What gift may this be? Love?Or liking? or compassion?
CAMBER.
Take not thusMine innocent words amiss, nor wrest awryTheir piteous purpose toward thee.
GUENDOLEN.
Piteous!Who lives so low and looks upon the skyAs would desire—who shares the sun with usThat might deserve thy pity?
CAMBER.
Thou.
GUENDOLEN.
Not I,Though I were cast out hence, cast off, discrowned,Abject, ungirt of all that guards me round,Naked. What villainous madness, knave and king,Is this that puts upon thy babbling tonguePoison?
CAMBER.
The truth is as a snake to stingThat breathes ill news: but where its fang hath stungThe very pang bids health and healing spring.God knows the grief wherewith my spirit is wrung—The spirit of thee so scorned, so misesteemed,So mocked with strange misprision and misdeemedMerciless, false, unbrotherly—to takeSuch task upon it as may burn thine heartWith bitterer hatred of me that I spakeWhat, had I held my peace and crept apartAnd tamed my soul to silence for thy sakeAnd mercy toward the royal thing thou art,Chance haply might have made a fiery swordTo slay thee with—slay thee, and spare thy lord.
GUENDOLEN.
Worse had it done to slay my lord, and spareMe. Wilt thou now show mercy toward me? ThenStrike with that sword mine heart through—if thou dare.All know thy tongue’s edge deadly.
CAMBER.
Guendolen,Thou seest me like a vassal bound to bearAll bitter words that bite the hearts of menFrom thee, so be it this please thy wrath. I standSlave of thy tongue and subject of thine hand,And pity thee. Take, if thou wilt, my head;Give it my brother. Thou shalt hear me speakFirst, though the soothfast word that hangs unsaidAs yet, being spoken,—albeit this hand be weakAnd faint this heart, thou sayest—should strike thee deadEven with that rose of wrath on brow and cheek.
GUENDOLEN.
I hold not thee too faint of heart to slayWomen. Say forth whate’er thou hast heart to say.
CAMBER.
Silence I have not heart to keep, and seeScorn and derision gird thee round with shame,Not knowing what all thy serfs who mock at theeKnow, and make mirth and havoc of thy name.Does this not move thee?
GUENDOLEN.
How should aught move meFallen from such tongues as falsehood finds the same—Such tongues as fraud or treasonous hate o’erscurfsWith leprous lust—a prince’s or a serf’s?
CAMBER.
That lust of the evil-speaking tongue which givesQuick breath to deadly lies, and stings to lifeThe rottenness of falsehood, when it lives,Falls dumb, and leaves the lie to bring forth strife.The liar will say no more—his heart misgivesHis knaveship—should he sunder man and wife?Such, sister, in thy sight, it seems, am I.Yet shalt thou take, to keep or cast it by,The truth of shame I would not have thee hear,—Not might I choose,—but choose I may not.
GUENDOLEN.
ShameAnd truth? Shame never toward thine heart came near,And all thy life hath hung about thy name.Nor ever truth drew nigh the lips that fearWhitens, and makes the blood that feeds them tame.Speak all thou wilt—but even for shame, forsooth,Talk not of shame—and tell me not of truth.
CAMBER.
Then shalt thou hear a lie. Thy loving lordLoves none save thee; his heart’s pulse beats in thine;No fairer woman, captive of his sword,Caught ever captive and subdued Locrine:The god of lies bear witness. At the fordOf Humber blood was never shed like wine:Our brother Albanact lived, fought, and died,Never: and I that swear it have not lied.
GUENDOLEN.
Fairer?
CAMBER.
They say it: but what are lies to thee?
GUENDOLEN.
Art thou nor man nor woman?
CAMBER.
Nay—I trust—Man.
GUENDOLEN.
And hast heart to make thy spoil of me?
CAMBER.
Would God I might!
GUENDOLEN.
Thou art made of lies and lust—Earth’s worst is all too good for such to see,And yet thine eyes turn heavenward—as they must,Being man’s—if man be such as thou—and soilThe light they see. Thou hast made of me thy spoil,Thy scorn, thy profit—yea, my whole soul’s plunderIs all thy trophy, thy triumphal prizeAnd harvest reaped of thee; nay, trampled underAnd rooted up and scattered. Yet the skiesThat see thy trophies reared are full of thunder,And heaven’s high justice loves not lust and lies.
CAMBER.
Ill then should fare thy lord—if heaven be just,And lies be lies, and lawless love be lust.
GUENDOLEN.
Thou liest. I know my lord and thee. Thou liest.
CAMBER.
If he be true and truth be false, I lie.
GUENDOLEN.
Thou art lowest of all men born—while he sits highest.
CAMBER.
Ay—while he sits. How long shall he sit high?
GUENDOLEN.
If I but whisper him of thee, thou diest.
CAMBER.
I fear not, if till then secure am I.
GUENDOLEN.
Secure as fools are hardy live thou still.
CAMBER.
While ill with good is guerdoned, good with ill.
GUENDOLEN.
I have it in my mind to take thine head.Dost thou not fear to put me thus in fear?
CAMBER.
I fear nor man nor woman, quick nor dead:And dead in spirit already stand’st thou here.
GUENDOLEN.
Thou darest not swear my lord hath wronged my bed.Thou darest but smile and mutter, lie and leer.
CAMBER.
I swear no queen bore ever crown on browWho meeklier bore a heavier wrong than thou.
GUENDOLEN.
From thee will I bear nothing. Get thee hence:Thine eyes defile me. Get thee from my sight.
CAMBER.
The gods defend thee, soul and spirit and sense,From sense of things thou darest not read aright!Farewell.
[Exit.
GUENDOLEN.
Fare thou not well, and be defenceFar from thy soul cast naked forth by night!Hate rose from hell a liar: love came divineFrom heaven: yet she that bore thee bore Locrine.
[Exit.
EnterLocrineandDebon.
LOCRINE.
Thou knowest not what she knows or dreams of? whyHer face is dark and wan, her lip and eyeRestless and red as fever? Hast thou keptFaith?
DEBON.
Has my master found my faith a lieOnce all these years through? have I strayed or sleptOnce, when he bade me watch? what proof has leaptAt last to light against me?
LOCRINE.
Surely, none.Weep not.
DEBON.
My lord’s grey vassal hath not weptOnce, even since darkness covered from the sunThe woman’s face—the sole sweet wifelike one—Whose memory holds his heart yet fast: but nowTears, were old age not poor in tears, might runFree as the words that bid his stricken browBurn and bow down to hear them.
LOCRINE.
Hast not thouHeld counsel—played the talebearer whose talesBear plague abroad and poison, knowing not how—Not with my wife nor brother?
DEBON.
Nought availsFalsehood: and truth it is, the king of WalesSo plied me, sir, with force of craft and threat—
LOCRINE.
That thou, whose faith swerves never, flags nor failsNor falters, being as stars are loyal, yetWast found as those that fall from heaven, forgetTheir station, shoot and shudder down to deathDeep as the pit of hell? What snares were setTo take thy soul—what mist of treasonous breathMade blind in thee the sense that quickenethIn true men’s inward eyesight, when they knowAnd 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.
Nay, now this long time sinceWe have seen the queen’s face wan with wrath and woe—Have seen her lip writhe and her eyelid winceTo take men’s homage—proof that might convinceOf grief inexpiable and insatiate shameHer spirit in all men’s judgment.
LOCRINE.
But the prince—My brother, whom thou knowest by proof, not fame,A coward whose heart is all a flickering flameThat fain would burn and dares not—whence had heThe poison that he gave her? Speak: this cameBy chance—mishap—most haplessly for theeWho hadst my heart in thine, and madest of meNo more than might for folly’s sake or fear’sBe bared for even such eyes as his to see?Old friend that wast, I would not see thy tears.God comfort thy dishonour!
DEBON.
All these yearsHave I not served thee?
LOCRINE.
Yea. So cheer thee now.
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. HowHast thou such heart, to comfort such as me?God’s thunder were less fearful than the browThat 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.
Friend,Take comfort. God’s wide-reaching will shall beHere as of old accomplished, though it blendAll 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.
EnterCamberandMadan.
CAMBER.
Hath no man seen thee?
MADAN.
Had he seen, and spoken,His head should lose its tongue. I am far awayIn Cornwall.
CAMBER.
Where the front of war is brokenBy the onset of thy force—the rebel frayShattered. Had no man—canst thou surely say?—Knowledge betimes, to give us knowledge here—Us babblers, tongues made quick with fraud and fear—That thou wast bound from Cornwall hither?
MADAN.
None,I think, who knowing of steel and fire and cordThat they can smite and burn and strangle oneWould loose without leave of his parting lordThe tongue that else were sharper than a swordTo cut the throat it sprang from.
CAMBER.
Nephew mine,I have ever loved thee—not thy sire LocrineMore—and for very and only love of theeHave I desired, or ever even thy motherBeheld thee, here to know of thee and meWhich loves her best—her and thy sire my brother.
MADAN.
He being away, far hence—and so none other—Not he—should share the knowledge?
CAMBER.
Surely notHe. Knowest thou whither hence he went?
MADAN.
God wot,No: haply toward some hidden paramour.
CAMBER.
And that should set not, for thy mother’s sake,And thine, the heart in thee on fire?
MADAN.
An hourIs less than even the time wherein we takeBreath to let loose the word that fain would break,And cannot, even for passion,—if we setAn hour against the length of life: and yetLess in account of life should be those hours—Should be? should be not, live not, be not known,Not thought of, not remembered even as ours,—Whereon the flesh or fancy bears aloneRule that the soul repudiates for its own,Rejects and mocks and mourns for, and reclaimsIts nature, none the ignobler for the shamesThat were but shadows on it—shed but shadeAnd perished. If thy brother and king, my sire—
CAMBER.
No king of mine is he—we are equal, weighedAright in state, though here his throne stand higher.
MADAN.
So be it. I say, if even some earth-born fireHave ever lured the loftiest head that earthSees royal, toward a charm of baser birthAnd force less godlike than the sacred spellThat links with him my mother, what were thisTo her or me?
CAMBER.
To her no more than hellTo souls cast forth who hear all hell-fire hissAll round them, and who feel the red worm’s kissShoot mortal poison through the heart that restsImmortal: serpents suckled at her breasts,Fire feeding on her limbs, less pain should beThan sense of pride laid waste and love laid low,If she be queen or woman: and to thee—
MADAN.
To me that wax not woman though I knowThis, what shall hap or hap not?
CAMBER.
Were it so,It should not irk thee, she being wronged alone;Thy mother’s bed, and not thy father’s throne,Being soiled with usurpation. Ay? but sayThat now mine uncle and her sire lies deadAnd helpless now to help her, or affrayThe heart wherein her ruin and thine were bred,Not she were cast forth only from his bed,But thou, loathed issue of a contract loathedSince first their hands were joined not but betrothed,Wert cast forth out of kingship? stripped of state,Unmade his son, unseated, unallowed,Discrowned, disorbed, discrested—thou, but latePrince, and of all men’s throats acclaimed aloud,Of all men’s hearts accepted and avowedPrince, now proclaimed for some sweet bastard’s sakePeasant?
MADAN.
Thy sire was sure less man than snake,Though mine miscall thee brother.
CAMBER.
Coward or mad?Which might one call thee rather, whose harsh heartEnvenoms so thy tongue toward one that hadNo thought less kindly—toward even thee that artKindless—than best beseems a kinsman’s part?
MADAN.
Lay not on me thine own foul shame, whose tongueWould turn my blood to poison, while it stungThy brother’s fame to death. I know my sireAs shame knows thee—and better no man knowsAught.
CAMBER.
Have thy will, then: take thy full desire:Drink dry the draught of ruin: bid all blowsWelcome: 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.
Yet—thou didst think to help me?
CAMBER.
Kinsman, ay.My hand had held the field beside thine own,And all wild hills that know my rallying cryHad poured forth war for heart’s pure love aloneTo help thee—wouldst thou heed me—to thy throne.
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 twainAnd gird thy temples with the goodlier half,Think’st thou my debt might so be paid again—Thy sceptre made a more imperial staffThan sways as now thy hill-folk?
CAMBER.
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 heldWorth less than royal guerdon?
MADAN.
Keep thine own,And let the loud fierce knaves thy brethren quelledWard off the wolves whose hides should line thy throne,Wert thou no coward, no recreant to the bone,No liar in spirit and soul and heartless heart,No slave, no traitor—nought of all thou art.A thing like thee, made big with braggart breath,Whose tongue shoots fire, whose promise poisons trust,Would cast a shieldless soldier forth to deathAnd wreck three realms to sate his rancorous lustWith ruin of them who have weighed and found him dust.Get thee to Wales: there strut in speech and swell:And thence betimes God speed thee safe to hell.
[Exeunt severally.
EnterLocrineandEstrild.
LOCRINE.
If thou didst ever love me, love me now.I am weary at heart of all on earth save thee.And yet I lie: and yet I lie not. Thou—Dost thou not think for love’s sake scorn of me?
ESTRILD.
As earth of heaven: as morning of the sun.
LOCRINE.
Nay, what thinks evening, whom he leaves undone?
ESTRILD.
Thou madest me queen and woman: though my lifeWere taken, these thou couldst not take again,The gifts thou gavest me. More am I than wife,Whom, till my tyrant by thy strength were slainAnd by thy love my servile shame cast out,My naked sorrows clothed and girt aboutWith princelier pride than binds the brows of queens,Thou sawest of all things least and lowest alive.What means thy doubt?
LOCRINE.
Fear knows not what it means:And I was fearful even of clouds that driveAcross the dawn, and die—of all, of nought—Winds whispering on the darkling ways of thought,Sunbeams that flash like fire, and hopes like fearsThat slay themselves, and live again, and die.But in mine eyes thy light is, in mine earsThy music: I am thine, and more than I,Being half of thy sweet soul.
ESTRILD.
Woe worth me then!For one requires thee wholly.
LOCRINE.
Guendolen?
ESTRILD.
I said she was the fairer—and I lied not.
LOCRINE.
Thou art the fairest fool alive.
ESTRILD.
But she,Being wise, exceeds me: yet, so she divide notThine heart, my best-beloved of liars, with me,I care not—nor I will not care. Some partShe hath had, it may be, of thy fond false heart—Nay, couldst thou choose? but now, though she be fairer,Let her take all or none: I will not bePartaker of her perfect sway, nor sharerWith any on earth more dear or less to thee.Nay, be not wroth: what wilt thou have me say?That I can love thee less than she can? Nay,Thou knowest I will not ill to her; but she—Would she not burn my child and me with fireTo wreak herself, who loved thee once, on thee?
LOCRINE.
Thy fear is darker, child, than her desire.
ESTRILD.
I fear not her at all: I would not fearThe one thing fearful to me yet, who hereSit walled around with waters and with woodsFrom all things fearful but the fear of change.
LOCRINE.
Fear thou not that: for nothing born eludesTime; and the joy were sorrowful and strangeThat should endure for ever. Yea, I thinkSuch joy would pray for sorrow’s cup to drink,Such constancy desire an end, for mereLong weariness of watching. Thou and IHave all our will of life and loving here,—A heavenlier heaven on earth: but we shall die,And if we died not, love we might outliveAs now shall love outlive us.
ESTRILD.
We?
LOCRINE.
Forgive!
ESTRILD.
King! and I held thee more than man!
LOCRINE.
God wot,Thou art more than I—more strong and wise;I knowThou couldst not live one hour if love were not.
ESTRILD.
And thou?—
LOCRINE.
I would not. All the world were woe,And all the day night, if the love I bear theeWere plucked out of the life wherein I wear theeAs crown and comfort of its nights and days.
ESTRILD.
Thou liest—for love’s sake and for mine—and ILie not, who swear by thee whereon I gazeI hold no truth so hallowed as the lieWherewith my love redeems me from the snareDark doubt had set to take me.
LOCRINE.
Wilt thou swear—By what thou wilt soever—by the sunThat sees us—by the light of all these flowers—By this full stream whose waves we hear not run—By all that is nor mine nor thine, but ours—That thou didst ever doubt indeed? or dreamThat doubt, whose breath bids love of love misdeem,Were other than the child of hate and hell,The liar first-born of falsehood?
ESTRILD.
Nay—I think—God help me!—hardly. Never? can I tell?When half our soul and all our senses sinkFrom dream to dream down deathward, slain with sleep,How may faith hold assurance fast, or keepHer power to cast out fear for love’s sake?
LOCRINE.
Could doubt not thee, waking or sleeping.
ESTRILD.
No—Thou art not mad. How should the sunlit skyBetray the sun? cast out the sunshine? SoArt thou to me as light to heaven: should lightDie, were not heaven as hell and noon as night?And wherefore should I hold more dear than lifeDeath? Could I live, and lack thee? Thou, O king,Hast lands and lordships—and a royal wife—And rule of seas that tire the seamew’s wing—And fame as far as fame can travel; I,What have I save this home wherein to die,Except thou love me? Nay, nor home were this,No place to die or live in, were I sureThou didst not love me. Swear not by this kissThat love lives longer—faith may more endure—Than one poor kiss that passes with the breathOf lips that gave it life at once and death.Why shouldst thou swear, and wherefore should I trust?When day shall drive not night from heaven, and nightShall chase not day to deathward, then shall dustBe constant—and the stars endure the sightOf dawn that shall not slay them.
LOCRINE.
By thine eyes—Turned stormier now than stars in bare-blown skiesWherethrough the wind rings menace,—I will swearNought: so shall fear, mistrust, and jealous hateLie foodless, if not fangless. Thou, so fairThat heaven might change for thee the seal of fate,How darest thou doubt thy power on souls of men?
ESTRILD.
What vows were those that won thee Guendolen?
LOCRINE.
I sware not so to her. Thou knowest—
ESTRILD.
Not I.Thou knowest that I know nothing.
LOCRINE.
Nay, I knowThat nothing lives under the sweet blue skyWorth thy sweet heeding, wouldst thou think but so,Save love—wherewith thou seest thy world fulfilled.
ESTRILD.
Ay,—would I see but with thine eyes.
LOCRINE.
Estrild,Estrild!
ESTRILD.
No soft reiterance of my nameCan sing my sorrow down that comes and goesAnd colours hope with fear and love with shame.Rose hast thou called me: were I like the rose,Happier were I than woman: she survivesNot by one hour, like us of longer lives,The sun she lives in and the love he givesAnd takes away: but we, when love grows sere,Live yet, while trust in love no longer lives,Nor drink for comfort with the dying yearDeath.
LOCRINE.
Wouldst thou drink forgetfulness for wineTo heal thine heart of love toward me?
ESTRILD.
Locrine,Locrine!
LOCRINE.
Thou wouldst not: do not mock me then,Saying out of evil heart, in evil jest,Thy trust is dead to meward.
ESTRILD.
King of men,Wouldst thou, being only of all men lordliest,Be lord of women’s thoughts and loving fears?Nay, wert thou less than lord of worlds and years,Of stars and suns and seasons, couldst thou dreamTo take such empire on thee?
LOCRINE.
Nay, not I—No more than she there playing beside the streamTo slip within a stormier stream and die.
ESTRILD.
She runs too near the brink. Sabrina!
LOCRINE.
See,Her hands are lily-laden: let them beA flower-sweet symbol for us.
EnterSabrina.
SABRINA.
Sire! O sire,See what fresh flowers—you knew not these before—The spring has brought, to serve my heart’s desire,Forth of the river’s barren bed! no moreWill I rebuke these banks for sterile slothWhen spring restores the woodlands. By my troth,I hoped not, when you came again, to bringSo large a tribute worth so full a smile.
LOCRINE.
Child! how should I to thee pay tribute?
ESTRILD.
King,Thou hast not kissed her.
LOCRINE.
Dare my lips defileHeaven? O my love, in sight of her and theeI marvel how the sun should look on meAnd spare to turn his beams to fire.
ESTRILD.
The childHears, and is troubled.
SABRINA.
Did I wrong, to say‘Sire?’ but you bade me say so. He is mild,And will not chide me. Father!
ESTRILD.
Hear’st thou?
LOCRINE.
Yea—I hear. I would the world beyond our sightWere dead as worlds forgotten.
ESTRILD.
Wouldst thou frightHer?
LOCRINE.
Hath all sense forsaken me? Sabrina,Thou dost not fear me?
SABRINA.
No. But when your eyesWax red and dark, with flaughts of fire between,I fear them—or they fright me.
LOCRINE.
Wert thou wise,They would not. Never have I looked on theeSo.
SABRINA.
Nay—I fear not what might fall on me.Here laughs my father—here my mother smiles—Here smiles and laughs the water—what should IFear?
LOCRINE.
Nought more fearful than the water’s wiles—Which whoso fears not ere he fear shall die.
SABRINA.
Die? and is death no less an ill than dread?I had liefer die than be nor quick nor dead.I think there is no death but fear of death.
LOCRINE.
Of death or life or anything but loveWhat knowest thou?
SABRINA.
Less than these, my mother saith—Less than the flowers that seeing all heaven aboveFade and wax hoar or darken, lose their trustAnd leave their joy and let their glories rustAnd die for fear ere winter wound them: weLive no less glad of snowtime than of spring:It cannot change my father’s face for meNor turn from mine away my mother’s. KingThey call thee: hath thy kingship made thee lessIn height of heart than we are?
LOCRINE.
No, and yes.Here sits my heart at height of hers and thine,Laughing for love: here not the quiring birdsSing higher than sings my spirit: I am here Locrine,Whom no sound vexes here of swords or words,No cloud of thought or thunder: were my lifeCrowned but as lord and sire of child and wife,Throned but as prince of woodland, bank and bower,My joys were then imperial, and my stateFirm as a star, that now is as a flower.
SABRINA.
Thou shouldst not then—if joy grow here so great—Part from us.
LOCRINE.
No: for joy grows elsewhere scant.
SABRINA.
I would fain see the towers of Troynovant.
LOCRINE.
God keep thine eyes fulfilled with sweeter sights,And this one from them ever!
SABRINA.
Why? Men sayThine halls are full of guests, princes and knights,And lordly musters of superb array;Why are we thence alone, and alway?
ESTRILD.
Peace,Child: let thy babble change its note, or ceaseHere; is thy sire not wiser—by God’s grace—Than I or thou?
LOCRINE.
Wouldst thou too see fulfilledThe fear whose shadow fallen on joy’s fair faceStrikes it more sad than sorrow’s own? Estrild,Wast thou then happier ere this wildwood shrineHid thee from homage, left thee but LocrineFor worshipper less worthy grace of theeThan those thy sometime suppliants?
ESTRILD.
Nay; my lordTakes too much thought—if tongues ring true—for me.
LOCRINE.
Such tongues ring falser than a broken chordWhose jar distunes the music.
ESTRILD.
Wilt thou stayBut three nights here?
LOCRINE.
I had need be hence today.
ESTRILD.
Go.
SABRINA.
But I bid thee tarry; what am IThat thou shouldst heed not what I bid thee?
LOCRINE.
QueenAnd empress more imperious and more highAnd regent royaller than time hath seenAnd mightier mistress of thy sire and thrall:Yet must I go. But ere the next moon fallAgain will I grow happy.
ESTRILD.
Who can say?
LOCRINE.
So much can I—except the stars combineUnseasonably to stay me.
ESTRILD.
Let them stayThe tides, the seasons rather. Love! Locrine!I never parted from thee, nor shall part,Save with a fire more keen than fire at heart:But now the pang that wrings me, soul and sense,And turns fair day to darkness deep as hell,Warns me, the word that seals thy parting hence—‘Farewell’—shall bid us never more fare well.
SABRINA.
Lo! she too bids thee tarry; dost thou notHear?
LOCRINE.
Might I choose, small need were hers, God wot,Or thine, to bid me tarry. When I comeAgain—
SABRINA.
Thou shalt not see me: I will hideFrom sight of such a sire—or bow down dumbBefore him—strong and hard as he in pride—And so thou shalt not hear me.
LOCRINE.
Who can tell?So now say I.
ESTRILD.
God keep my lord!
LOCRINE.
Farewell.
[Exeunt.
EnterGuendolenandMadan.
GUENDOLEN.
Come close, and look upon me. Child or man,—I know not how to call thee, being my child,Who know not how myself am called, nor can—God witness—tell thee what should she be styledWho bears the brand and burden set on herThat man hath set on me—the lands are wildWhence late I bade thee hither, swift of spurAs he that rides to guard his mother’s life;Thou hast found nought loathlier there, nought hate-fullerIn all the wilds that seethe with fluctuant strife,Than here besets thine advent. Son, if thouBe son of mine, and I thy father’s wife—
MADAN.
If heaven be heaven, and God be God.
GUENDOLEN.
As nowWe know not if they be. Give me thine hand.Thou hast mine eyes beneath thy father’s brow,—And therefore bears it not the traitor’s brand.Swear—But I would not bid thee swear in vainNor bind thee ere thine own soul understand,Ere thine own heart be molten with my pain,To do such work for bitter love of meAs haply, knowing my heart, thou wert not fain—Even thou—to take upon thee—bind on thee—Set all thy soul to do or die.
MADAN.
I swear.
GUENDOLEN.
And though thou sworest not, yet the thing should be.The burden found for me so sore to bearWhy should I lay on any hand but mine,Or bid thine own take part therein, and wearA father’s blood upon it—here—for sign?Ay, now thou pluck’st it forth of hers to whomThou sworest and gavest it plighted. O Locrine,Thy seed it was that sprang within my womb,Thine, and none other—traitor born and liar,False-faced, false-tongued—the fire of hell consumeMe, thee, and him for ever!
MADAN.
Hath my sireWronged thee?
GUENDOLEN.
Thy sire? my lord? the flower of men?How?
MADAN.
For thy tongue was tipped but now with fire—With fire of hell—against him.
GUENDOLEN.
Now, and then,Are twain; thou knowest not women, how their tongueTakes fire, and straight learns patience: GuendolenIs there no more than crownless woman, wrungAt heart with anguish, and in utterance madAs even the meanest whom a snake hath stungSo near the heart that all the pulse it hadGrows palpitating poison. Wilt thou knowWhence?
MADAN.
Could I heal it, then mine own were glad.
GUENDOLEN.
What think’st thou were the bitterest wrong, the woeLeast bearable by woman, worst of allThat man might lay upon her? Nay, thou art slow:Speak: though thou speak but folly. Silent? CallTo mind whatso thou hast ever heard of illMost monstrous, that should turn to fire and gallThe milk and blood of maid or mother—stillThou shalt not find, I think, what he hath done—What I endure, and die not. For my willIt is that holds me yet alive, O son,Till all my wrong be wroken, here to keepFast watch, a living soul before the sun,Anhungered and athirst for night and sleep,That will not slake the ravin of her thirstNor quench her fire of hunger, till she reapThe harvest loved of all men, last as first—Vengeance.
MADAN.
What wrong is this he hath done thee? WordsAre edgeless weapons: live we blest or curst,No jot the more of evil or good engirdsThe life with bitterest curses compassed roundOr girt about with blessing. Hinds and herdsWage threats and brawl and wrangle: wind and soundSuffice their souls for vengeance: we requireDeeds, and till place for these and time be foundSilence. What bids thee bid me slay my sire?
GUENDOLEN.
I praise the gods that gave me thee: thine heartIs none of his, no changeling’s in desire,No coward’s as who begat thee: mine thou artAll, and mine only. Lend me now thine ear:Thou knowest—
MADAN.
What anguish holds thy lips apartAnd strikes thee silent? Am I bound to hearWhat thou to speak art bound not?
GUENDOLEN.
How my lord,Our lord, thy sire—the king whose throne is hereImperial—smote and drove the wolf-like hordeThat raged against us from the raging east,And how their chief sank in the unsounded fordHe thought to traverse, till the floods increasedAgainst him, and he perished: and LocrineFound in his camp for sovereign spoil to feastThe sense of power with lustier joy than wineA woman—Dost thou mock me?
MADAN.
And a fairWoman, if all men lie not, mother mine—I have heard so much. And then?
GUENDOLEN.
Thou dost not dareMock me?
MADAN.
I know not what should make thee madThough this and worse, howbeit it irk thee, were.Art thou discrowned, dethroned, disrobed, uncladOf empire? art thou powerless, bloodless, old?This were some hurt: but now—thou shouldst be gladTo take this chance upon thee, and to holdSo large a lordly happiness in handAs when my father’s and thy lord’s is coldShall leave in thine the sway of all this land.
GUENDOLEN.
And thou? no she-wolf whelps upon the woldWhose brood is like thy mother’s.
MADAN.
Nay—I standA man thy son before thee.
GUENDOLEN.
And a boldMan: is thine heart flesh, or a burning brandLit to burn up and turn for thee to goldThe kingship of thy sire?
MADAN.
Why, blessed or banned,We thrive alike—thou knowest it—why, but nowI said so,—scarce the glass has dropped one sand—And thou didst smile on me—and all thy browSmiled.
GUENDOLEN.
Thou dost love then, thou, thy mother yet—Me, dost thou love a little? None but thouThere is to love me; for the gods forget—Nor shall one hear of me a prayer again;Yea, none of all whose thrones in heaven are setShall hear, nor one of all the sons of men.
MADAN.
What wouldst thou have?
GUENDOLEN.
Thou knowest.
MADAN.
I know not. Speak.
GUENDOLEN.
Have I kept silence all this while?
MADAN.
What then?What boots it though thy word, thine eye, thy cheek,Seem all one fire together, if that fireSink, and thy face change, and thine heart wax weak,To hear what deed should slake thy sore desireAnd satiate thee with healing? This alone—Except thine heart be softer toward my sireStill than a maid’s who hears a wood-dove moanAnd weeps for pity—this should comfort thee:His death.