GUENDOLEN.
And sight of Madan on his throne?
MADAN.
What ailed thy wits, mother, to send for me?
GUENDOLEN.
Yet shalt thou not go back.
MADAN.
Why, what should IDo here, where vengeance has not heart to beAnd wrath dies out in weeping? Let it die—And let me go.
GUENDOLEN.
I did not bid thee spare.
MADAN.
Speak then, and bid me smite.
GUENDOLEN.
Thy father?
MADAN.
Ay—If thus it please my mother.
GUENDOLEN.
Dost thou dareThis?
MADAN.
Nay, I lust not after empire soThat for mine own hand I should haply careTo take this deed upon it: but the blow,Thou sayest, that speeds my father forth of life,Speeds too my mother forth of living woeThat till he dies may die not. If his wifeSet in his son’s right hand the sword to slay—No poison brewed of hell, no treasonous knife—The sword that walks and shines and smites by day,Not on his hand who takes the sword shall cleaveThe blood that clings on hers who gives it.
GUENDOLEN.
Yea—So be it. What levies wilt thou raise, to heaveThy father from his seat?
MADAN.
Let that be noughtOf all thy care: do thou but trust—believeThy son’s right hand no feebler than thy thought,If that be strong to smite—and thou shalt seeVengeance.
GUENDOLEN.
I will. But were thy musters broughtWhence now thou art come to cheer me, this should beA sign for us of comfort.
MADAN.
Dost thou fearSigns?
GUENDOLEN.
Nay, child, nay—thou art harsh as heaven to me—I would but have of thee a word of cheer.
MADAN.
I am weak in words: my tongue can match not thine,Mother.Voices within] The king!
GUENDOLEN.
Hearst thou?Voices within.] The king!
MADAN.
I hear.
EnterLocrine.
LOCRINE.
How fares my queen?
GUENDOLEN.
Well. And this child of mine—How he may fare concerns not thee to know?
LOCRINE.
Why, well I see my boy fares well.
GUENDOLEN.
Locrine,Thou art welcome as the sun to fields of snow.
LOCRINE.
But hardly would they hail the sun whose faceDissolves them deathward. Was thy meaning so?
GUENDOLEN.
Make answer for me, Madan.
LOCRINE.
In thy place?The boy’s is not beside thee.
GUENDOLEN.
Speak, I say.
MADAN.
God guard my lord and father with his grace!
LOCRINE.
Well prayed, my child.
GUENDOLEN.
Children—who can but pray—Pray better, if my sense not err, than we.The God whom all the gods of heaven obeyShould hear them rather, seeing—as gods may see—How pure of purpose is their perfect prayer.
LOCRINE.
I think not else—the better then for me.But ours—what manner of child is this? the hairBuds flowerwise round his darkening lips and chin,This hand’s young hardening palm knows how to bearThe sword-hilt’s poise that late I laid therein—Ha? doth not it?
GUENDOLEN.
Thine enemies know that well.
MADAN.
I make no boast of battles that have been;But, so God help me, days unborn shall tellWhat manner of heart my father gave me.
LOCRINE.
Good.I doubt thee not.
GUENDOLEN.
In Cornwall they that fellSo found it, that of all their large-limbed broodNo bulk is left to brave thee.
LOCRINE.
Yea, I knowOur son hath given the wolf our foes for foodAnd won him worthy praise from friend or foe;And heartier praise and trustier thanks from none,Boy, than thy father pays thee.
GUENDOLEN.
Wouldst thou showThy love, thy thanks, thy fatherhood in one,Thy perfect honour—yea, thy right to standCrowned, and lift up thine eyes against the sunAs one so pure in heart, so clean of hand,So loyal and so royal, none might castA word against thee burning like a brand,A sound that withers honour, and makes fastThe bondage of a recreant soul to shame—Thou shouldst, or ever an hour be overpast,Slay him.
LOCRINE.
Thou art mad.
GUENDOLEN.
What, is not then thy nameLocrine? and hath this boy done ill to thee?Hath he not won him for thy love’s sake fame?Hath he not served thee loyally? is heSo much thy son, so little son of mine,That men might call him traitor? May they seeThe brand across his brow that reddens thine?How shouldst thou dare—how dream—to let him live?Is he not loyal? art not thou Locrine?What less than death for guerdon shouldst thou giveMy son who hath done thee service? Me thou hast given—Who hast found me truer than falsehood can forgive—Shame for my guerdon: yea, my heart is rivenWith shame that once I loved thee.
LOCRINE.
Guendolen,A woman’s wrath should rest not unforgivenSave of the slightest of the sons of men:And no such slight and shameful thing am IAs would not yield thee pardon.
GUENDOLEN.
Slay me then.
LOCRINE.
Thee, or thy son? but now thou bad’st him die.
GUENDOLEN.
Thou liest: I bade thee slay him.
LOCRINE.
Art thou madIndeed?
GUENDOLEN.
O liar, is all the world a lie?I bade thee, knowing thee what thou art—I badeMy lord and king and traitor slay my son—A heartless hand that lacks the power it hadSmite one whose stroke shall leave it strengthless—oneWhose loyal loathing of his shame in theeShall cast it out of eyeshot of the sun.
LOCRINE.
Thou bad’st me slay him that he might—he, slay me?
GUENDOLEN.
Thou hast said—and yet thou hast lied not.
LOCRINE.
Hell’s own hateBrought never forth such fruit as thine.
GUENDOLEN.
But heIs the issue of thy love and mine, by fateMade one to no good issue. Didst thou trustThat grief should give to men disconsolateComfort, and treason bring forth truth, and dustBlossom? What love, what reverence, what regard,Shouldst thou desire, if God or man be just,Of this thy son, or me more evil-starred,Whom scorn salutes his mother?
LOCRINE.
How should scornDraw near thee, girt about with power for guard,Power and good fame? unless reproach be bornOf these thy violent vanities of moodThat fight against thine honour.
GUENDOLEN.
Dost thou mournFor that? Too careful art thou for my good,Too tender and too true to me and mine,For shame to make my heart or thine his foodOr scorn lay hold upon my fame or thine.Art thou not pure as honour’s perfect heart—Not treason-cankered like my lord Locrine,Whose likeness shows thee fairer than thou artAnd falser than thy loving care of meWould bid my faith believe thee?
LOCRINE.
What strange partIs this that changing passion plays in thee?Know’st thou me not?
GUENDOLEN.
Yea—witness heaven and hell,And all the lights that lighten earth and sea,And all that wrings my heart, I know thee well.How should I love and hate and know thee not?
LOCRINE.
Thy voice is as the sound of dead love’s knell.
GUENDOLEN.
Long since my heart has tolled it—and forgotAll save the cause that bade the death-bell soundAnd cease and bring forth silence.
LOCRINE.
Is thy lotLess fair and royal, girt with power and crowned,—Than might fulfil the loftiest heart’s desire?
GUENDOLEN.
Not air but fire it is that rings me round—Thy voice makes all my brain a wheel of fire.Man, what have I to do with pride of power?Such pride perchance it was that moved my sireTo bid me wed—woe worth the woful hour!—His brother’s son, the brother’s born aboveHim as above me thou, the crown and flowerOf Britain, gentler-hearted than the doveAnd mightier than the sunward eagle’s wing:But nought moved me save one thing only—love.
LOCRINE.
I know it.
GUENDOLEN.
Thou knowest? but this thou knowest not, king,How near of kin are bitter love and hate—Nor which of these may be the deadlier thing.
LOCRINE.
What wouldst thou?
GUENDOLEN.
Death. Would God my heart were great!Then would I slay myself.
LOCRINE.
I dare not fearThat heaven hath marked for thee no fairer fate.
GUENDOLEN.
Ay! wilt thou slay me then—and slay me here?
LOCRINE.
Mock not thy wrath and me. No hair of thineWould I—thou knowest it—hurt; nor vex thine earWith answering wrath more vain than fumes of wine.I have wronged and yet not wronged thee. Whence or whenStrange whispers rose that turned thy heart from mineI would not know for shame’s sake, Guendolen,And honour’s that I bear thee.
GUENDOLEN.
Didst thou deemI would outlive with thee the scorn of men,A slave enthroned beside a traitor? SeemThese eyes and lips and hands of mine a slave’sUplift for mercy toward thee? Such a dreamSets realms on fire, and turns their fields to graves.
LOCRINE.
No dream is mine that does thee less than right:Albeit thy words be wild as warring waves,I know thee higher of heart than shame could smiteAnd queenlier than thy queenship.
GUENDOLEN.
Dost the knowWhat day records to day and night to night—How he whose wrath was rained as hail or snowOn Troy’s adulterous towers, when treacherous flameDevoured them, and our fathers’ roofs lay low,And all their praise was turned to fire and shame—All-righteous God, who herds the stars of heavenAs sheep within his sheepfold—God, whose nameCompels the wandering clouds to service, givenAs surely as even the sun’s is—loves or hatesTreason? He loved our sires: were they forgiven?Their walls upreared of gods, their sevenfold gates,Might these keep out his justice? What art thouTo make thy will more strong and sure than fate’s?Thy fate am I, that falls upon thee now.Wilt thou not slay me yet—and slay thy son?So shall thy fate change, and unbend the browThat now looks mortal on thee.
LOCRINE.
What is doneLies now past help or pleading: nor would IPlead with thee, knowing that love henceforth is noneNor trust between us till the day we die.Yet, if thy name be woman,—if thine heartBe not burnt up with fire of hell, and lieNot wounded even to death—albeit we part,Let there not be between us war, but peace,Though love may be not.
GUENDOLEN.
Peace? The man thou artCraves—and shame bids not breath within him cease—Craves of the woman that thou knowest I amPeace? Ay, take hands at parting, and releaseEach heart, each hand, each other: shall the lamb,The lamb-like woman, born to cower and bleed,Withstand his will whose choice may save or damnHer days and nights, her word and thought and deed—Take heart to outdare her lord the lion? HowShould this be—if the lion’s imperial seedLife not against his sire as brave a browAs frowns upon his mother?—Peace be thenBetween us: none may stand before thee now:No son of thine keep faith with Guendolen.
MADAN.
I have held my peace perforce, it seems, too long,Being slower of speech than sons of meaner men.But seeing my sire hath done my mother wrong,My hand is hers to serve against my sire.
GUENDOLEN.
And God shall make thine hand against him strong.
LOCRINE.
Ay: when the hearthstead flames, the roof takes fire.
GUENDOLEN.
Woe worth his hand who set the hearth on flame!
LOCRINE.
Curse not our fathers; though thy fierce desireDrive thine own son against his father, shameShould rein thy tongue from speech too shameless.
GUENDOLEN.
Ay!And thou, my holy-hearted lord,—the sameWhose hand was laid in mine and bound to lieThere fast for ever if faith be found on earth—If truth be true, and shame not wholly die—Hast thou not made thy mockery and thy mirth,Thy laughter and thy scorn, of shame? But we,Thy wife by wedlock, and thy son by birth,Who have no part in spirit and soul with thee,Will bear no part in kingdom nor in lifeWith one who hath put to shame his child and me.Thy true-born son, and I that was thy wife,Will see thee dead or perish. Call thy menAbout thee; bid them gird their loins for strifeMore dire than theirs who storm the wild wolf’s den;For if thou dare not slay us here todayThou art dead.
LOCRINE.
Thou knowest I dare not, Guendolen,Dare what the ravenous beasts whose life is preyDream not of doing, though drunk with bloodshed.
GUENDOLEN.
No:Thou art gentle, and beasts are honest: no such wayLies open toward thy fearful foot: not soShalt thou find surety from these foes of thine.Woe worth thee therefore! yea, a sevenfold woeShall God through us rain down on thee, Locrine.Hadst thou the heart God hath not given thee—thenOur blood might run before thy feet like wineAnd wash thy way toward sin in sight of menSmooth, soft, and safe. But if thou shed it not—If Madan live to look on GuendolenLiving—I wot not what shall be—I wotWhat shall not—thou shalt have no joy to liveMore than have they for whom God’s wrath grows hot.
LOCRINE.
God’s grace is no such gift as thou canst give,Queen, or withhold. Farewell.
GUENDOLEN.
I dare not sayFarewell.
LOCRINE.
And why?
GUENDOLEN.
Thou hast not said—Forgive.
LOCRINE.
I say it—I have said. Thou wilt not hear me?
GUENDOLEN.
Nay.
[Exeunt.
Enter on one sideLocrineand his army:on the othersideGuendolen,Madan,and their army.
LOCRINE.
Stand fast, and sound a parley.
MADAN.
Halt: it seemsThey would have rather speech than strokes of us.
LOCRINE.
This light of dawn is like an evil dream’sThat comes and goes and is not. Yea, and thusOur hope on both sides wavering dares allowNo light but fire to bid us die or live.—Son, and my wife that was, my rebels now,That here we stand with death to take or giveI call the sun of heaven, God’s likeness wroughtOn darkness, whence all spirits breathe and shine,To witness, is no work of will or thoughtConceived or bred in brain or heart of mine.Ye have levied wars against me, and compelledMy will unwilling and my power withheldTo strike the stroke I would not, when I might.Will ye not yet take thought, and spare these menWhom else the blind and burning fire of fightMust feed upon for pasture? Guendolen,Had I not left thee queen in Troynovant,Though wife no more of mine, in all this landNo hand had risen, no eye had glared askant,Against me: thine is each man’s heart and handThat burns and strikes in all this battle raisedTo serve and slake thy vengeance. With my sonI plead not, seeing his praise in arms dispraisedFor ever, and his deeds of truth undoneBy patricidal treason. But with theePeace would I have, if peace again may beBetween us. Blood by wrath unnatural shedOr spent in civic battle burns the landWhereon it falls like fire, and brands as redThe conqueror’s forehead as the warrior’s hand.I pray thee, spare this people: reign in peaceWith separate honours in a several state:As love that was hath ceased, let hatred cease:Let not our personal cause be made the fateThat damns to death men innocent, and turnsThe joy of life to darkness. Thine aloneIs all this war: to slake the flame that burnsThus high should crown thee royal, and enthroneThy praise in all men’s memories. If thou wilt,Peace let there be: if not, be thine the guilt.
GUENDOLEN.
Mine? Hear it, heaven,—and men, bear witness! MineThe treachery that hath rent our realm in twain—Mine, mine the adulterous treason. Not Locrine,Not he, found loyal to my love in vain,Hath brought the civic sword and fire of strifeOn British fields and homesteads, clothed with joy,Crowned with content and comfort: I, his wife,Have brought on Troynovant the fires of Troy.He lifts his head before the sun of heavenAnd swears it—lies, and lives. Is God’s bright swordBroken, wherewith the gates of Troy—the sevenStrong gates that gods who built them held in ward—Were broken even as wattled reeds with fire?Son, by what name shall honour call thy sire?
MADAN.
How long shall I and all these mail-clad menStand and give ear, or gape and catch at flies,While ye wage warring words that wound not? WhenHave I been found of you so wordy-wiseThat thou or he should call to counsel oneSo slow of speech and wit as thou and he,Who know my hand no sluggard, know your son?Till speech be clothed in iron, bid not meSpeak.
LOCRINE.
Yet he speaks not ill.
GUENDOLEN.
Did I not knowMine honour perfect as thy shame, Locrine,Now might I say, and turn to pride my woe,Mine only were this boy, and none of thine.But what thou mayest I may not. Where are theyWho ride not with their lord and sire today?Thy secret Scythian and your changeling child,Where hide they now their heads that lurk not hiddenThere where thy treason deemed them safe, and smiled?When arms were levied, and thy servants biddenAbout thee to withstand the doom of menWhose loyal angers flamed upon our sideAgainst thee, from thy smooth-skinned she-wolf’s denHer whelp and she sought covert unespied,But not from thee far off. Thou hast born them hitherFor refuge in this west that stands for theeAgainst our cause, whose very name should witherThe hearts of them that hate it. Where is she?Hath she not heart to keep thy side? or thou,Dost thou think shame to stand beside her nowAnd bid her look upon thy son and wife?Nay, she should ride at thy right hand and laughTo see so fair a lordly field of strifeShine for her sake, whose lips thy love bids quaffFor pledge of trustless troth the blood of men.
LOCRINE.
Should I not put her in thine hand to slay?Hell hath laid hold upon thee, Guendolen,And turned thine heart to hell-fire. Be thy preyThyself, the wolfish huntress: and the bloodRest on thine head that here shall now be spilt.
GUENDOLEN.
Let it run broader than this water’s floodSwells after storm, it shall not cleanse thy guilt.Give now the word of charge; and God do rightBetween us in the fiery courts of fight.
[Exeunt.
EnterEstrildandSabrina.
SABRINA.
When will my father come again?
ESTRILD.
God knows,Sweet.
SABRINA.
Hast thou seen how wide this water flows—How smooth it swells and shines from brim to brim,How fair, how full? Nay, then thine eyes are dim.Thou dost not weep for fear lest evil menOr that more evil woman—GuendolenDidst thou not call her yesternight by name?—Should put my father’s might in arms to shame?What is she so to levy shameful strifeAgainst my sire and thee?
ESTRILD.
His wife! his wife!
SABRINA.
Why, that art thou.
ESTRILD.
Woe worth me!
SABRINA.
Nay, woe worthHer wickedness! How may the heavens and earthEndure her?
ESTRILD.
Heaven is fire, and earth a sword,Against us.
SABRINA.
May the wife withstand her lordAnd war upon him? Nay, no wife is she—And no true mother thou to mock at me.
ESTRILD.
Yea, no true wife or mother, child, am I.Yet, child, thou shouldst not say it—and bid me die.
SABRINA.
I bid thee live and laugh at wicked foesEven as my sire and I do. What! ‘God knows,’Thou sayest, and yet art fearful? Is he notRighteous, that we should fear to take the lotForth of his hand that deals it? And my sire,Kind as the sun in heaven, and strong as fire,Hath he not God upon his side and ours,Even all the gods and stars and all their powers?
ESTRILD.
I know not. Fate at sight of thee should breakHis covenant—doom grow gentle for thy sake.
SABRINA.
Wherefore?
ESTRILD.
Because thou knowest not wherefore. Child,My days were darkened, and the ways were wildWherethrough my dark doom led me toward this end,Ere I beheld thy sire, my lord, my friend,My king, my stay, my saviour. Let thine handLie still in mine. Thou canst not understand,Yet would I tell thee somewhat. Ere I knewIf aught of evil or good were false or true,If aught of life were worth our hope or fear,There fell on me the fate that sets us here.For in my father’s kingdom oversea—
SABRINA.
Thou wast not born in Britain?
ESTRILD.
Woe is me,No: happier hap had mine perchance been then.
SABRINA.
And was not I? Are these all stranger men?
ESTRILD.
Ay, wast thou, child—a Briton born: God giveThy name the grace on British tongues to live!
SABRINA.
Is that so good a gift of God’s—to dieAnd leave a name alive in memory? IWould rather live this river’s life, and beHeld of no less or more account than he.Lo, how he lives and laughs! and hath no name,Thou sayest—or one forgotten even of fameThat lives on poor men’s lips and falters downTo nothing. But thy father? and his crown?Did he less hate the coil of it than mine,Or love thee less—nay, then he were not thine—Than he, my sire, loves me?
ESTRILD.
And wilt thou hearAll? Child, my child, love born of love, more dearThan very love was ever! Hearken then.This plague, this fire, that hunts us—Guendolen—Was wedded to thy sire ere I and heCast ever eyes on either. Woe is me!Thou canst not dream, sweet, what my soul would sayAnd not affright thee.
SABRINA.
Thou affright me? Nay,Mock not. This evil woman—when he knewThee, this my sweet good mother, wise and true—He cast from him and hated.
ESTRILD.
Yea—and nowFor that shall haply he and I and thouDie.
SABRINA.
What is death? I never saw his faceThat I should fear it.
ESTRILD.
Whether grief or graceOr curse or blessing breathe from it, and giveAught worse or better than the life we live,I know no more than thou knowest; perchance,Less. When we sleep, they say, or fall in trance,We die awhile. Well spake thine innocent breath—I think there is no death but fear of death.
SABRINA.
Did I say this? but that was long ago—Months. Now I know not—yet I think I know—Whether I fear or fear not it. Hard byMen fight even now—they strike and kill and dieRed-handed; nay, we hear the roar and seeThe lightning of the battle: can it beThat what no soul of all these brave men fearsShould sound so fearful save in foolish ears?But all this while I know not where it lay,Thy father’s kingdom.
ESTRILD.
Far from here awayIt lies beyond the wide waste water’s boundThat clasps with bitter waves this sweet land round.Thou hast seen the great sea never, nor canst dreamHow fairer far than earth’s most lordly streamIt rolls its royal waters here and there,Most glorious born of all things anywhere,Most fateful and most godlike; fit to makeMen love life better for the sweet sight’s sakeAnd less fear death if death for them should beShrined in the sacred splendours of the seaAs God in heaven’s mid mystery. Night and dayForth of my tower-girt homestead would I strayTo gaze thereon as thou upon the brightSoft river whence thy soul took less delightThan mine of the outer sea, albeit I knowHow great thy joy was of it. Now—for soThe high gods willed it should be—once at mornStrange men there landing bore me thence forlornAcross the wan wild waters in their bark,I wist not where, through change of light and dark,Till their fierce lord, the son of spoil and strife,Made me by forceful marriage-rites his wife.Then sailed they toward the white and flower-sweet strandWhose free folk follow on thy father’s hand,And warred against him, slaying his brother: and heHurled all their force back hurtling toward the sea,And slew my lord their king; but me he gaveGrace, and received not as a wandering slave,But one whom seeing he loved for pity: whyShould else a sad strange woman such as IFind in his fair sight favour? and for meHe built the bower wherein I bare him thee,And whence but now he hath brought us westward, hereTo abide the extreme of utmost hope or fear.And come what end may ever, death or life,I live or die, if truth be truth, his wife;And none but I and thou, though day wax dim,Though night grow strong, hath any part in him.
SABRINA.
What should we fear, then? whence might anyFall on us?
ESTRILD.
Ah! Ah me! God answers here.
EnterLocrine,wounded.
LOCRINE.
Praised be the gods who have brought me safe—to dieBeside thee. Nay, but kneel not—rise, and flyEre death take hold on thee too. Bid the childKiss me. The ways all round are wide and wild—Ye may win safe away. They deemed me dead—My last friends left—who saw me fallen, and fledNo shame is theirs—they fought to the end. But ye,Fly: not your love can keep my life in me—Not even the sight and sense of you so near.
SABRINA.
How can we fly, father?
ESTRILD.
She would not fear—Thy very child is she—no heart less highThan thine sustains her—and we will not fly.
LOCRINE.
So shall their work be perfect. Yea, I knowOur fate is fallen upon us, and its woe.Yet have we lacked not gladness—and this endIs not so hard. We have had sweet life to friend,And find not death our enemy. All men bornDie, and but few find evening one with mornAs I do, seeing the sun of all my lifeLighten my death in sight of child and wife.I would not live again to lose that kiss,And die some death not half so sweet as this.
[Dies.
ESTRILD.
Thou thought’st to cleave in twain my life andTo cast my hand away in death, Locrine?See now if death have drawn thee far from me!
[Stabs herself.
SABRINA.
Thou diest, and hast not slain me, mother?
ESTRILD.
Thee?Forgive me, child! and so may they forgive.
[Dies.
SABRINA.
O mother, canst thou die and bid me live?
EnterGuendolen,Madan,and Soldiers.
GUENDOLEN.
Dead? Ah! my traitor with his harlot fledHellward?
MADAN.
Their child is left thee.
GUENDOLEN.
She! not dead?
SABRINA.
Thou hast slain my mother and sire—thou hast slain thy lord—Strike now, and slay me.
GUENDOLEN.
Smite her with thy sword.
MADAN.
I know not if I dare. I dare not.
GUENDOLEN.
ShameConsume thee!—Thou—what call they, girl, thy name?Daughter of Estrild,—daughter of Locrine,—Daughter of death and darkness!
SABRINA.
Yet not thine.Darkness and death are come on us, and thou,Whose servants are they: heaven behind thee nowStands, and withholds the thunder: yet on meHe gives thee not, who helps and comforts thee,Power for one hour of darkness. Ere thine handCan put forth power to slay me where I standSafe shall I sleep as these that here lie slain.
GUENDOLEN.
She dares not—though the heart in her be fain,The flesh draws back for fear. She dares not.
SABRINA.
See!I change no more of warring words with theeO father, O my mother, here am I:They hurt me not who can but bid me die.
[She leaps into the river.
GUENDOLEN.
Save her! God pardon me!
MADAN.
The water whirlsDown out of sight her tender face, and hurlsHer soft light limbs to deathward. God forgive—Thee, sayest thou, mother? Wouldst thou bid her live?
GUENDOLEN.
What have we done?
MADAN.
The work we came to do.That God, thou said’st, should stand for judge of youWhose judgment smote with mortal fire and swordTroy, for such cause as bade thee slay thy lord.Now, as between his fathers and their foesThe lord of gods dealt judgment, winged with woesAnd girt about with ruin, hath he sentOn these destruction.
GUENDOLEN.
Yea.
MADAN.
Art thou content?
GUENDOLEN.
The gods are wise who lead us—now to smite,And now to spare: we dwell but in their sighAnd work but what their will is. What hath beenIs past. But these, that once were king and queen,The sun, that feeds on death, shall not consumeNaked. Not I would sunder tomb from tombOf these twain foes of mine, in death made one—I, that when darkness hides me from the sunShall sleep alone, with none to rest by me.But thou—this one time more I look on thee—Fair face, brave hand, weak heart that wast not mine—Sleep sound—and God be good to thee, Locrine.I was not. She was fair as heaven in springWhom thou didst love indeed. Sleep, queen and king,Forgiven; and if—God knows—being dead, ye live,And keep remembrance yet of me—forgive.
[Exeunt.