Locrine - A Tragedy | Page 8

manhood, here Born and bred up to read the word aright That sunders man from beast as day from night. That red rank Ireland where men burn and slay Girls, old men, children, mothers, sires, and say These wolves and swine that skulk and strike do well, As soon might know sweet heaven from ravenous hell.
GUENDOLEN.
Ay: no such coward as crawls and licks the dust Till blood thence licked may slake his murderous lust And leave his tongue the suppler shall be bred, I think, in Britain ever--if the dead May witness for the living. Though my son Go forth among strange tribes to battle, none Here shall he meet within our circling seas So much more vile than vilest men as these. And though the folk be fierce that harbour there As once the Scythians driven before thee were, And though some Cornish water change its name As Humber then for furtherance of thy fame, And take some dead man's on it--some dead king's Slain of our son's hand--and its watersprings Wax red and radiant from such fire of fight And swell as high with blood of hosts in flight - No fiercer foe nor worthier shall he meet Than then fell grovelling at his father's feet. Nor, though the day run red with blood of men As that whose hours rang round thy praises then, Shall thy son's hand be deeper dipped therein Than his that gat him--and that held it sin To spill strange blood of barbarous women--wives Or harlots--things of monstrous names and lives - Fit spoil for swords of harsher-hearted folk; Nor yet, though some that dared and 'scaped the stroke Be fair as beasts are beauteous,--fit to make False hearts of fools bow down for love's foul sake, And burn up faith to ashes--shall my son Forsake his father's ways for such an one As whom thy soldiers slew or slew not--thou Hast no remembrance of them left thee now. Even therefore may we stand assured of this: What lip soever lure his lip to kiss, Past question--else were he nor mine nor thine - This boy would spurn a Scythian concubine.
LOCRINE.
Such peril scarce may cross or charm our son, Though fairer women earth or heaven sees none Than those whose breath makes mild our wild south-west Where now he fares not forth on amorous quest.
GUENDOLEN.
Wilt thou not bless him going, and bid him speed?
LOCRINE.
So be it: yet surely not in word but deed Lives all the soul of blessing or of ban Or wrought or won by manhood's might for man. The gods be gracious to thee, boy, and give Thy wish its will!
MADAN.
So shall they, if I live. [Exeunt.

SCENE II.--Gardens of the Palace.

Enter CAMBER and DEBON.
CAMBER.
Nay, tell not me: no smoke of lies can smother The truth which lightens through thy lies: I see Whose trust it is that makes a liar of thee, And how thy falsehood, man, has faith for mother. What, is not thine the breast wherein my brother Seals all his heart up? Had he put in me Faith--but his secret has thy tongue for key, And all his counsel opens to none other. Thy tongue, thine eye, thy smile unlocks his trust Who puts no trust in man.
DEBON.
Sir, then were I A traitor found more perfect fool than knave Should I play false, or turn for gold to dust A gem worth all the gold beneath the sky - The diamond of the flawless faith he gave Who sealed his trust upon me.
CAMBER.
What art thou? Because thy beard ere mine were black was grey Art thou the prince, and I thy man? I say Thou shalt not keep his counsel from me.
DEBON.
Now, Prince, may thine old born servant lift his brow As from the dust to thine, and answer--Nay. Nor canst thou turn this nay of mine to yea With all the lightning of thine eyes, I trow, Nor this my truth to treason.
CAMBER.
God us aid! Art thou not mad? Thou knowest what whispers crawl About the court with serpent sound and speed, Made out of fire and falsehood; or if made Not all of lies--it may be thus--not all - Black yet no less with poison.
DEBON.
Prince, indeed I know the colour of the tongues of fire That feed on shame to slake the thirst of hate; Hell-black, and hot as hell: nor age nor state May pluck the fangs forth of their foul desire: I that was trothplight servant to thy sire, A king more kingly than the front of fate That bade our lives bow down disconsolate When death laid hold on him--for hope nor hire, Prince, would I lie to thee: nay, what avails Falsehood? thou knowest I would not.
CAMBER.
Why, thou art old; To thee could falsehood bear but fruitless fruit - Lean grafts