Locrine - A Tragedy | Page 6

to thee! How farest thou?
GUENDOLEN.
Well. Heaven hath no power to hurt me more: and hell No fire to fear.

The world I dwelt in died With my dead father. King, thy world is wide
Wherein thy soul rejoicingly puts trust: But mine is strait, and built by
death of dust.
LOCRINE.
Thy sire, mine uncle, stood the sole man, then, That held thy life up
happy? Guendolen, Hast thou nor child nor husband--or are we Worth
no remembrance more at all of thee?
GUENDOLEN.
Thy speech is sweet; thine eyes are flowers that shine: If ever siren bare
a son, Locrine, To reign in some green island and bear sway On shores
more shining than the front of day And cliffs whose brightness dulls the
morning's brow, That son of sorceries and of seas art thou.
LOCRINE.
Nay, now thy tongue it is that plays on men; And yet no siren's honey,
Guendolen, Is this fair speech, though soft as breathes the south, Which
thus I kiss to silence on thy mouth.
GUENDOLEN.
Thy soul is softer than this boy's of thine: His heart is all toward battle.
Was it mine That put such fire in his? for none that heard Thy
flatteries--nay, I take not back the word - A flattering lover lives my
loving lord - Could guess thine hand so great with spear or sword.
LOCRINE.
What have I done for thee to mock with praise And make the boy's eyes
widen? All my days Are worth not all a week, if war be all, Of his that
loved no bloodless festival - Thy sire, and sire of slaughters: this was
one Who craved no more of comfort from the sun But light to lighten
him toward battle: I Love no such life as bids men kill or die.
GUENDOLEN.
Wert thou not woman more in word than act, Then unrevenged thy
brother Albanact Had given his blood to guard his realm and thine: But
he that slew him found thy stroke, Locrine, Strong as thy speech is
gentle.
LOCRINE.
God assoil The dead our friends and foes!
GUENDOLEN.
A goodly spoil Was that thine hand made then by Humber's banks Of
all who swelled the Scythian's riotous ranks With storm of inland surf

and surge of steel: None there were left, if tongues ring true, to feel The
yoke of days that breathe submissive breath More bitter than the
bitterest edge of death.
LOCRINE.
None.
GUENDOLEN.
This was then a day of blood. I heard, But know not whence I caught
the wandering word, Strange women were there of that outland crew,
Whom ruthlessly thy soldiers ravening slew.
LOCRINE.
Nay, Scythians then had we been, worse than they.
GUENDOLEN.
These that were taken, then, thou didst not slay?
LOCRINE.
I did not say we spared them.
GUENDOLEN.
Slay nor spare?
LOCRINE.
How if they were not?
GUENDOLEN.
What albeit they were? Small hurt, meseems, my husband, had it been
Though British hands had haled a Scythian queen - If such were
found--some woman foul and fierce - To death--or aught we hold for
shame's sake worse.
LOCRINE.
For shame's own sake the hand that should not fear To take such
monstrous work upon it here, And did not wither from the wrist, should
be Hewn off ere hanging. Wolves or men are we, That thou shouldst
question this?
GUENDOLEN.
Not wolves, but men, Surely: for beasts are loyal.
LOCRINE.
Guendolen, What irks thee?
GUENDOLEN.
Nought save grief and love; Locrine, A grievous love, a loving grief is
mine. Here stands my husband: there my father lies: I know not if there
live in either's eyes More love, more life of comfort. This our son

Loves me: but is there else left living one That loves me back as I love?
LOCRINE.
Nay, but how Has this wild question fired thine heart?
GUENDOLEN.
Not thou! No part have I--nay, never had I part - Our child that hears
me knows it--in thine heart. Thy sire it was that bade our hands be one
For love of mine, his brother: thou, his son, Didst give not--no--but
yield thy hand to mine, To mine thy lips--not thee to me, Locrine. Thy
heart has dwelt far off me all these years; Yet have I never sought with
smiles or tears To lure or melt it meward. I have borne - I that have
borne to thee this boy--thy scorn, Thy gentleness, thy tender words that
bite More deep than shame would, shouldst thou spurn or smite These
limbs and lips made thine by contract--made No wife's, no queen's--a
servant's--nay, thy shade. The shadow am I, my lord and king, of thee,
Who art spirit and substance, body and soul to me. And now,--nay,
speak not--now my sire is dead Thou think'st