Locrine - A Tragedy | Page 9

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 and sour. I think thou wouldst not.
DEBON.

Wales In such a lord lives happy: young and bold And yet not mindless
of thy sire King Brute, Who loved his loyal servants even as they
Loved him. Yea, surely, bitter were the fruit, Prince Camber, and the
tree rotten at root That bare it, whence my tongue should take today For
thee the taste of poisonous treason.
CAMBER.
Nay, What boots it though thou plight thy word to boot? True servant
wast thou to my sire King Brute, And Brute thy king true master to
thee.
DEBON.
Yea. Troy, ere her towers dropped hurtling down in flame, Bare not a
son more noble than the sire Whose son begat thy father. Shame it were
Beyond all record in the world of shame, If they that hither bore in
heart that fire Which none save men of heavenly heart may bear Had
left no sign, though Troy were spoiled and sacked, That heavenly was
the seed they saved.
CAMBER.
No sign? Though nought my fame be,--though no praise of mine Be
worth men's tongues for word or thought or act - Shall fame forget my
brother Albanact, Or how those Huns who drank his blood for wine
Poured forth their own for offering to Locrine? Though all the
soundless maze of time were tracked, No men should man find nobler.
DEBON.
Surely none. No man loved ever more than I thy brothers, Prince.
CAMBER.
Ay--for them thy love is bright like spring, And colder toward me than
the wintering sun. What am I less--what less am I than others, That thus
thy tongue discrowns my name of king, Dethrones my title, disanoints
my state, And pricks me down but petty prince?
DEBON.
My lord -
CAMBER.
Ay? must my name among their names stand scored Who keep my
brother's door or guard his gate? A lordling--princeling--one that stands
to wait - That lights him back to bed or serves at board. Old man, if yet
thy foundering brain record Aught--if thou know that once my sire was
great, Then must thou know he left no less to me, His youngest,