Locrine - A Tragedy | Page 5

Thy meaning? Blunt am I, thou knowest, of wit;
And scarce yet man--men tell me.
GUENDOLEN.
Ask not it. I meant not thou shouldst understand--I spake As one that
sighs, to ease her heart of ache, And would not clothe in words her
cause for sighs - Her naked cause of sorrow.
MADAN.
Wert thou wise, Mother, thy tongue had chosen of two things one -
Silence, or speech.
GUENDOLEN.
Speech had I chosen, my son, I had wronged thee--yea, perchance I
have wronged thine ears Too far, to say so much.
MADAN.
Nay, these are tears That gather toward thine eyelids now. Thou hast
broken Silence--if now thy speech die down unspoken, Thou dost me
wrong indeed--but more than mine The wrong thou dost thyself is.
GUENDOLEN.
And Locrine - Were not thy sire wronged likewise of me?
MADAN.
Yea.
GUENDOLEN.
Yet--I may choose yet--nothing will I say More.
MADAN.
Choose, and have thy choice; it galls not me.
GUENDOLEN.
Son, son! thy speech is bitterer than the sea.
MADAN.
Yet, were the gulfs of hell not bitterer, thine Might match thy son's,
who hast called my sire--Locrine - Thy lord, and lord of all this
land--the king Whose name is bright and sweet as earth in spring,
Whose love is mixed with Britain's very life As heaven with earth at
sunrise--thou, his wife, Hast called him--and the poison of the word Set
not thy tongue on fire--I lived and heard - Coward.
GUENDOLEN.
Thou liest.
MADAN.
If then thy speech rang true, Why, now it rings not false.

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.
How have I lied, mother? Was this the lie, That thou didst call my
father coward, and I Heard?
GUENDOLEN.
Nay--I did but liken him with one Not all unlike him; thou, my child,
his son, Art more unlike thy father.
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.
Nay, save when heaven would cross him in the fight, He bare him, say
the minstrels, as a knight - Yea, like thy father.
MADAN.
Shame then were it none Though men should liken me to him?
GUENDOLEN.
My son, I had rather see thee--see thy brave bright head, Strong limbs,
clear eyes--drop here before me dead.
MADAN.
If he were true man, wherefore?
GUENDOLEN.
False was he; No coward indeed, but faithless, trothless--we Hold
therefore, as thou sayest, his princely name Unprincely--dead in
honour--quick in shame.
MADAN.
And his to mine thou likenest?
GUENDOLEN.
Thine? to thine? God rather strike thy life as dark as mine Than tarnish
thus thine honour! For to me Shameful it seems--I know not if it be -
For men to lie, and smile, and swear, and lie, And bear the gods of
heaven false witness. I Can hold not this but shameful.
MADAN.
Thou dost well. I had liefer cast my soul alive to hell Than play a false

man false. But were he true And I the traitor--then what heaven should
do I wot not, but myself, being once awake Out of that treasonous
trance, were fain to slake With all my blood the fire of shame wherein
My soul should burn me living in my sin.
GUENDOLEN.
Thy soul? Yea, there--how knowest thou, boy, so well? - The fire is lit
that feeds the fires of hell. Mine is aflame this long time now--but thine
- O, how shall God forgive thee this, Locrine, That thou, for shame of
these thy treasons done, Hast rent the soul in sunder of thy son?
MADAN.
My heart is whole yet, though thy speech be fire Whose flame lays hold
upon it. Hath my sire Wronged thee?
GUENDOLEN.
Nay, child, I lied--I did but rave - I jested--was my face, then, sad and
grave, When most I jested with thee? Child, my brain Is wearied, and
my heart worn down with pain: I thought awhile, for very sorrow's sake,
To play with sorrow--try thy spirit, and take Comfort--God knows I
know not what I said, My father, whom I loved, being newly dead.
MADAN.
I pray thee that thou jest with me no more Thus.
GUENDOLEN.
Dost thou now believe me?
MADAN.
No.
GUENDOLEN.
I bore A brave man when I bore thee.
MADAN.
I desire No more of laud or leasing. Hath my sire Wronged thee?
GUENDOLEN.
Never. But wilt thou trust me now?
MADAN.
As trustful am I, mother of mine, as thou.
Enter LOCRINE.
LOCRINE.
The gods be good