Locrine: A Tragedy Part 2

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?

G.o.d 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 G.o.ds of heaven false witness. I Can hold not this but shameful.

MADAN.

Thou dost well.

I had liefer cast my soul alive to h.e.l.l 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 h.e.l.l.

Mine is aflame this long time now--but thine - O, how shall G.o.d 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--G.o.d 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 G.o.ds be good to thee! How farest thou?

GUENDOLEN.

Well.

Heaven hath no power to hurt me more: and h.e.l.l 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 s.h.i.+ne: If ever siren bare a son, Locrine, To reign in some green island and bear sway On sh.o.r.es more s.h.i.+ning 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.