Locrine: A Tragedy - LightNovelsOnl.com
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How fares my queen?
GUENDOLEN.
Well. And this child of mine - How he may fare concerns not thee to know?
LOCRINE.
Why, well I see my boy fares well.
GUENDOLEN.
Locrine, Thou art welcome as the sun to fields of snow.
LOCRINE.
But hardly would they hail the sun whose face Dissolves them deathward. Was thy meaning so?
GUENDOLEN.
Make answer for me, Madan.
LOCRINE.
In thy place?
The boy's is not beside thee.
GUENDOLEN.
Speak, I say.
MADAN.
G.o.d guard my lord and father with his grace!
LOCRINE.
Well prayed, my child.
GUENDOLEN.
Children--who can but pray - Pray better, if my sense not err, than we.
The G.o.d whom all the G.o.ds of heaven obey Should hear them rather, seeing--as G.o.ds may see - How pure of purpose is their perfect prayer.
LOCRINE.
I think not else--the better then for me.
But ours--what manner of child is this? the hair Buds flowerwise round his darkening lips and chin, This hand's young hardening palm knows how to bear The sword-hilt's poise that late I laid therein - Ha? doth not it?
GUENDOLEN.
Thine enemies know that well.
MADAN.
I make no boast of battles that have been; But, so G.o.d help me, days unborn shall tell What manner of heart my father gave me.
LOCRINE.
Good.
I doubt thee not.
GUENDOLEN.
In Cornwall they that fell So found it, that of all their large-limbed brood No bulk is left to brave thee.
LOCRINE.
Yea, I know Our son hath given the wolf our foes for food And won him worthy praise from friend or foe; And heartier praise and trustier thanks from none, Boy, than thy father pays thee.
GUENDOLEN.
Wouldst thou show Thy love, thy thanks, thy fatherhood in one, Thy perfect honour--yea, thy right to stand Crowned, and lift up thine eyes against the sun As one so pure in heart, so clean of hand, So loyal and so royal, none might cast A word against thee burning like a brand, A sound that withers honour, and makes fast The bondage of a recreant soul to shame - Thou shouldst, or ever an hour be overpast, Slay him.
LOCRINE.
Thou art mad.
GUENDOLEN.
What, is not then thy name Locrine? and hath this boy done ill to thee?
Hath he not won him for thy love's sake fame?
Hath he not served thee loyally? is he So much thy son, so little son of mine, That men might call him traitor? May they see The brand across his brow that reddens thine?
How shouldst thou dare--how dream--to let him live?
Is he not loyal? art not thou Locrine?
What less than death for guerdon shouldst thou give My son who hath done thee service? Me thou hast given - Who hast found me truer than falsehood can forgive - Shame for my guerdon: yea, my heart is riven With shame that once I loved thee.
LOCRINE.
Guendolen, A woman's wrath should rest not unforgiven Save of the slightest of the sons of men: And no such slight and shameful thing am I As would not yield thee pardon.
GUENDOLEN.
Slay me then.
LOCRINE.
Thee, or thy son? but now thou bad'st him die.
