Locrine: A Tragedy

ACT II. ACT II. Scene I.— The banks of the Ley . Enter Estrild and Sabrina . SABRINA. But will my father come not? not today, Mother? ESTRILD. God help thee! child, I cannot say. Why this of all days yet in summer’s sight? SABRINA. My birthday! ESTRILD. That should bring him—if it may. SABRINA. May should be must: he must not be away. His faith was pledged to me as king and knight. ESTRILD. Small fear he should not keep it—if he might. SABRINA. Might! and a king’s might his? do kings bear sway For nought, that aught should keep him hence till night? Why didst thou bid God help me when I sought To know but of his coming? ESTRILD. Even for nought But laughter even to think how strait a bound Shuts in the measure of thy sight and thought Who seest not why thy sire hath heed of aught Save thee and me—nor wherefore men stand crowned And girt about with empire. SABRINA. Have they found Such joy therein as meaner things have wrought? Sing me the song that ripples round and round. Estrild ( sings ):— Had I wist, quoth spring to the swallow, That earth could forget me, kissed By summer, and lured to follow Down ways that I know not, I, My heart should have waxed not high: Mid March would have seen me die, Had I wist. Had I wist, O spring, said the swallow, That hope was a sunlit mist And the faint light heart of it hollow, Thy woods had not heard me sing, Thy winds had not known my wing; It had faltered ere thine did, spring, Had I wist. SABRINA. That song is hardly even as wise as I— Nay, very foolishness it is.  To die In March before its life were well on wing, Before its time and kindly season—why Should spring be sad—before the swallows fly— Enough to dream of such a wintry thing? Such foolish words were more unmeet for spring Than snow for summer when his heart is high; And why should words be foolish when they sing? The song-birds are not. ESTRILD. Dost thou understand, Child, what the birds are singing? SABRINA. All the land Knows that: the water tells it to the rushes Aloud, and lower and softlier to the sand: The flower-fays, lip to lip and hand in hand, Laugh and repeat it all till darkness hushes Their singing with a word that falls and crushes All song to silence down the river-strand And where the hawthorns hearken for the thrushes. And all the secret sense is sweet and wise That sings through all their singing, and replies When we would know if heaven be gay or grey And would not open all too soon our eyes To look perchance on no such happy skies— As sleep brings close and waking blows away. ESTRILD. What gives thy fancy faith enough to say This? SABRINA. Why, meseems the sun would hardly rise Else, nor the world be half so glad of day. ESTRILD. Why didst thou crave of me that song, Sabrina? SABRINA. Because, methought, though one were king or queen And had the world to play with, if one missed What most were good to have, such joy, I ween, Were woful as a song with sobs between And well might wail for ever, ‘Had I wist!’ And might my father do but as he list, And make this day what other days have been, I should not shut tonight mine eyes unkissed. ESTRILD. I wis thou wouldst not. SABRINA. Then I would he were No king at all, and save his golden hair Wore on his gracious head no golden crown. Must he be king for ever? ESTRILD. Not if prayer Could lift from off his heart that crown of care And draw him toward us as with music down. SABRINA. Not so, but upward to us.  He would but frown To hear thee talk as though the woodlands there Were built no lordlier than the wide-walled town. Thou knowest, when I desire of him to see What manner of crown that wreath of towers may be That makes its proud head shine like older Troy’s, His brows are bent even while he laughs on me And bids me think no more thereon than he, For flowers are serious things, but towers are toys. ESTRILD. Ay, child; his heart was less care’s throne than joy’s, Power’s less than love’s friend ever: and with thee His mood that plays is blither than a boy’s. SABRINA. I would the boy would give the maid her will. ESTRILD. Has not thine heart as mine has here its fill? SABRINA. So have our hearts while sleeping—till they wake. ESTRILD. Too soon is this for waking: sleep thou still. SABRINA. Bid then the dawn sleep, and the world lie chill. ESTRILD. This nest is warm for one small wood-dove’s sake. SABRINA. And warm the world that feels the sundawn break. ESTRILD. But hath my fledgeling cushat here slept ill? SABRINA. No plaint is this, but pleading, that I make. ESTRILD. Plead not against thine own glad life: the plea Were like a wrangling babe’s that fain would be Free from the help its hardy heart contemns, Free from the hand that guides and guards it, free To take its way and sprawl and stumble.  See! Have we not here enough of diadems Hung high round portals pillared smooth with stems More fair than marble? SABRINA. This is but the Ley: I fain would look upon the lordlier Thames. ESTRILD. A very water-bird thou art: the river So draws thee to it that, seeing, my heart-strings quiver And yearn with fear lest peril teach thee fear Too late for help or daring to deliver. SABRINA. Nay, let the wind make willows weep and shiver: Me shall nor wind nor water, while I hear What goodly words saith each in other’s ear. And which is given the gift, and which the giver, I know not, but they take and give good cheer. ESTRILD. Howe’er this be, thou hast no heed of mine, To take so little of this life of thine I gave and would not see thee cast away For childishness in childhood, though it shine For me sole comfort, for my lord Locrine Chief comfort in the world. SABRINA. Nay, mother, nay, Make me not weep with chiding: wilt thou say I love thee not?  Hark! see, my sire for sign! I hear his horse. ESTRILD. He comes! SABRINA. He comes today! [ Exeunt . Scene II.— Troynovant . A Room in the Palace . Enter Guendolen and Camber . GUENDOLEN. I know not, sir, what ails you to desire Such audience of me as I give. CAMBER. What ails Me, sister?  Were the heart in me no higher Than his who heeds no more than harpers’ tales Such griefs as set a sister’s heart on fire— GUENDOLEN. Then were my brother now at rest in Wales, And royal. CAMBER. Am I less than royal here? GUENDOLEN. Even here as there alike, sir. CAMBER. Dost thou fear Nothing? GUENDOLEN. My princely cousin, not indeed Much that might hap at word or will of thine. CAMBER. Ay—meanest am I of my father’s seed, If men misjudge not, cousin; and Locrine Noblest. GUENDOLEN. Should I gainsay their general rede, My heart would mock me. CAMBER. Such a spirit as mine Being spiritless—my words heartless—mine acts Faint shadows of Locrine’s or Albanact’s? GUENDOLEN. Nay—not so much—I said not so.  Say thou What thou wouldst have—if aught thou wouldst—with me. CAMBER. No man might see thine eyes and lips and brow Who would not—what he durst not crave of thee. GUENDOLEN. Ay, verily?  And thy spirit exalts thee now So high that these thy words fly forth so free, And fain thine act would follow—flying above Shame’s reach and fear’s?  What gift may this be?  Love? Or liking? or compassion? CAMBER. Take not thus Mine innocent words amiss, nor wrest awry Their piteous purpose toward thee. GUENDOLEN. Piteous! Who lives so low and looks upon the sky As would desire—who shares the sun with us That might deserve thy pity? CAMBER. Thou. GUENDOLEN. Not I, Though I were cast out hence, cast off, discrowned, Abject, ungirt of all that guards me round, Naked.  What villainous madness, knave and king, Is this that puts upon thy babbling tongue Poison? CAMBER. The truth is as a snake to sting That breathes ill news: but where its fang hath stung The very pang bids health and healing spring. God knows the grief wherewith my spirit is wrung— The spirit of thee so scorned, so misesteemed, So mocked with strange misprision and misdeemed Merciless, false, unbrotherly—to take Such task upon it as may burn thine heart With bitterer hatred of me that I spake What, had I held my peace and crept apart And tamed my soul to silence for thy sake And mercy toward the royal thing thou art, Chance haply might have made a fiery sword To slay thee with—slay thee, and spare thy lord. GUENDOLEN. Worse had it done to slay my lord, and spare Me.  Wilt thou now show mercy toward me?  Then Strike with that sword mine heart through—if thou dare. All know thy tongue’s edge deadly. CAMBER. Guendolen, Thou seest me like a vassal bound to bear All bitter words that bite the hearts of men From thee, so be it this please thy wrath.  I stand Slave of thy tongue and subject of thine hand, And pity thee.  Take, if thou wilt, my head; Give it my brother.  Thou shalt hear me speak First, though the soothfast word that hangs unsaid As yet, being spoken,—albeit this hand be weak And faint this heart, thou sayest—should strike thee dead Even with that rose of wrath on brow and cheek. GUENDOLEN. I hold not thee too faint of heart to slay Women.  Say forth whate’er thou hast heart to say. CAMBER. Silence I have not heart to keep, and see Scorn and derision gird thee round with shame, Not knowing what all thy serfs who mock at thee Know, and make mirth and havoc of thy name. Does this not move thee? GUENDOLEN. How should aught move me Fallen from such tongues as falsehood finds the same— Such tongues as fraud or treasonous hate o’erscurfs With leprous lust—a prince’s or a serf’s? CAMBER. That lust of the evil-speaking tongue which gives Quick breath to deadly lies, and stings to life The rottenness of falsehood, when it lives, Falls dumb, and leaves the lie to bring forth strife. The liar will say no more—his heart misgives His knaveship—should he sunder man and wife? Such, sister, in thy sight, it seems, am I. Yet shalt thou take, to keep or cast it by, The truth of shame I would not have thee hear,— Not might I choose,—but choose I may not. GUENDOLEN. Shame And truth?  Shame never toward thine heart came near, And all thy life hath hung about thy name. Nor ever truth drew nigh the lips that fear Whitens, and makes the blood that feeds them tame. Speak all thou wilt—but even for shame, forsooth, Talk not of shame—and tell me not of truth. CAMBER. Then shalt thou hear a lie.  Thy loving lord Loves none save thee; his heart’s pulse beats in thine; No fairer woman, captive of his sword, Caught ever captive and subdued Locrine: The god of lies bear witness.  At the ford Of Humber blood was never shed like wine: Our brother Albanact lived, fought, and died, Never: and I that swear it have not lied. GUENDOLEN. Fairer? CAMBER. They say it: but what are lies to thee? GUENDOLEN. Art thou nor man nor woman? CAMBER. Nay—I trust— Man. GUENDOLEN. And hast heart to make thy spoil of me? CAMBER. Would God I might! GUENDOLEN. Thou art made of lies and lust— Earth’s worst is all too good for such to see, And yet thine eyes turn heavenward—as they must, Being man’s—if man be such as thou—and soil The light they see.  Thou hast made of me thy spoil, Thy scorn, thy profit—yea, my whole soul’s plunder Is all thy trophy, thy triumphal prize And harvest reaped of thee; nay, trampled under And rooted up and scattered.  Yet the skies That see thy trophies reared are full of thunder, And heaven’s high justice loves not lust and lies. CAMBER. Ill then should fare thy lord—if heaven be just, And lies be lies, and lawless love be lust. GUENDOLEN. Thou liest.  I know my lord and thee.  Thou liest. CAMBER. If he be true and truth be false, I lie. GUENDOLEN. Thou art lowest of all men born—while he sits highest. CAMBER. Ay—while he sits.  How long shall he sit high? GUENDOLEN. If I but whisper him of thee, thou diest. CAMBER. I fear not, if till then secure am I. GUENDOLEN. Secure as fools are hardy live thou still. CAMBER. While ill with good is guerdoned, good with ill. GUENDOLEN. I have it in my mind to take thine head. Dost thou not fear to put me thus in fear? CAMBER. I fear nor man nor woman, quick nor dead: And dead in spirit already stand’st thou here. GUENDOLEN. Thou darest not swear my lord hath wronged my bed. Thou darest but smile and mutter, lie and leer. CAMBER. I swear no queen bore ever crown on brow Who meeklier bore a heavier wrong than thou. GUENDOLEN. From thee will I bear nothing.  Get thee hence: Thine eyes defile me.  Get thee from my sight. CAMBER. The gods defend thee, soul and spirit and sense, From sense of things thou darest not read aright! Farewell. [ Exit . GUENDOLEN. Fare thou not well, and be defence Far from thy soul cast naked forth by night! Hate rose from hell a liar: love came divine From heaven: yet she that bore thee bore Locrine. [ Exit . ACT III. Scene I.— Troynovant . A Room in the Palace . Enter Locrine and Debon . LOCRINE. Thou knowest not what she knows or dreams of? why Her face is dark and wan, her lip and eye Restless and red as fever?  Hast thou kept Faith? DEBON. Has my master found my faith a lie Once all these years through? have I strayed or slept Once, when he bade me watch? what proof has leapt At last to light against me? LOCRINE. Surely, none. Weep not. DEBON. My lord’s grey vassal hath not wept Once, even since darkness covered from the sun The woman’s face—the sole sweet wifelike one— Whose memory holds his heart yet fast: but now Tears, were old age not poor in tears, might run Free as the words that bid his stricken brow Burn and bow down to hear them. LOCRINE. Hast not thou Held counsel—played the talebearer whose tales Bear plague abroad and poison, knowing not how— Not with my wife nor brother? DEBON. Nought avails Falsehood: and truth it is, the king of Wales So plied me, sir, with force of craft and threat— LOCRINE. That thou, whose faith swerves never, flags nor fails Nor falters, being as stars are loyal, yet Wast found as those that fall from heaven, forget Their station, shoot and shudder down to death Deep as the pit of hell?  What snares were set To take thy soul—what mist of treasonous breath Made blind in thee the sense that quickeneth In true men’s inward eyesight, when they know And know not how they know the word it saith, The warning word that whispers loud or low— I ask not: be it enough these things are so. Thou hast played me false. DEBON. Nay, now this long time since We have seen the queen’s face wan with wrath and woe— Have seen her lip writhe and her eyelid wince To take men’s homage—proof that might convince Of grief inexpiable and insatiate shame Her spirit in all men’s judgment. LOCRINE. But the prince— My brother, whom thou knowest by proof, not fame, A coward whose heart is all a flickering flame That fain would burn and dares not—whence had he The poison that he gave her?  Speak: this came By chance—mishap—most haplessly for thee Who hadst my heart in thine, and madest of me No more than might for folly’s sake or fear’s Be bared for even such eyes as his to see? Old friend that wast, I would not see thy tears. God comfort thy dishonour! DEBON. All these years Have I not served thee? LOCRINE. Yea.  So cheer thee now. DEBON. Cheered be the traitor, whom the true man cheers? Nay, smite me: God can be not such as thou, And will not damn me with forgiveness.  How Hast thou such heart, to comfort such as me? God’s thunder were less fearful than the brow That frowns not on thy friend found false to thee. Thy friend—thou said’st—thy friend.  Strange friends are we. Nay, slay me then—nay, slay me rather. LOCRINE. Friend, Take comfort.  God’s wide-reaching will shall be Here as of old accomplished, though it blend All good with ill that none may mar or mend. Thy works and mine are ripples on the sea. Take heart, I say: we know not yet their end. [ Exeunt . Scene II.— Gardens of the Palace . Enter Camber and Madan . CAMBER. Hath no man seen thee? MADAN. Had he seen, and spoken, His head should lose its tongue.  I am far away In Cornwall. CAMBER. Where the front of war is broken By the onset of thy force—the rebel fray Shattered.  Had no man—canst thou surely say?— Knowledge betimes, to give us knowledge here— Us babblers, tongues made quick with fraud and fear— That thou wast bound from Cornwall hither? MADAN. None, I think, who knowing of steel and fire and cord That they can smite and burn and strangle one Would loose without leave of his parting lord The tongue that else were sharper than a sword To cut the throat it sprang from. CAMBER. Nephew mine, I have ever loved thee—not thy sire Locrine More—and for very and only love of thee Have I desired, or ever even thy mother Beheld thee, here to know of thee and me Which loves her best—her and thy sire my brother. MADAN. He being away, far hence—and so none other— Not he—should share the knowledge? CAMBER. Surely not He.  Knowest thou whither hence he went? MADAN. God wot, No: haply toward some hidden paramour. CAMBER. And that should set not, for thy mother’s sake, And thine, the heart in thee on fire? MADAN. An hour Is less than even the time wherein we take Breath to let loose the word that fain would break, And cannot, even for passion,—if we set An hour against the length of life: and yet Less in account of life should be those hours— Should be? should be not, live not, be not known, Not thought of, not remembered even as ours,— Whereon the flesh or fancy bears alone Rule that the soul repudiates for its own, Rejects and mocks and mourns for, and reclaims Its nature, none the ignobler for the shames That were but shadows on it—shed but shade And perished.  If thy brother and king, my sire— CAMBER. No king of mine is he—we are equal, weighed Aright in state, though here his throne stand higher. MADAN. So be it.  I say, if even some earth-born fire Have ever lured the loftiest head that earth Sees royal, toward a charm of baser birth And force less godlike than the sacred spell That links with him my mother, what were this To her or me? CAMBER. To her no more than hell To souls cast forth who hear all hell-fire hiss All round them, and who feel the red worm’s kiss Shoot mortal poison through the heart that rests Immortal: serpents suckled at her breasts, Fire feeding on her limbs, less pain should be Than sense of pride laid waste and love laid low, If she be queen or woman: and to thee— MADAN. To me that wax not woman though I know This, what shall hap or hap not? CAMBER. Were it so, It should not irk thee, she being wronged alone; Thy mother’s bed, and not thy father’s throne, Being soiled with usurpation.  Ay? but say That now mine uncle and her sire lies dead And helpless now to help her, or affray The heart wherein her ruin and thine were bred, Not she were cast forth only from his bed, But thou, loathed issue of a contract loathed Since first their hands were joined not but betrothed, Wert cast forth out of kingship? stripped of state, Unmade his son, unseated, unallowed, Discrowned, disorbed, discrested—thou, but late Prince, and of all men’s throats acclaimed aloud, Of all men’s hearts accepted and avowed Prince, now proclaimed for some sweet bastard’s sake Peasant? MADAN. Thy sire was sure less man than snake, Though mine miscall thee brother. CAMBER. Coward or mad? Which might one call thee rather, whose harsh heart Envenoms so thy tongue toward one that had No thought less kindly—toward even thee that art Kindless—than best beseems a kinsman’s part? MADAN. Lay not on me thine own foul shame, whose tongue Would turn my blood to poison, while it stung Thy brother’s fame to death.  I know my sire As shame knows thee—and better no man knows Aught. CAMBER. Have thy will, then: take thy full desire: Drink dry the draught of ruin: bid all blows Welcome: being harsh with friends, be mild with foes, And give shame thanks for buffets.  Yet I thought— But how should help avail where heart is nought? MADAN. Yet—thou didst think to help me? CAMBER. Kinsman, ay. My hand had held the field beside thine own, And all wild hills that know my rallying cry Had poured forth war for heart’s pure love alone To help thee—wouldst thou heed me—to thy throne. MADAN. For pure heart’s love? what wage holds love in fee? Might half my kingdom serve?  Nay, mock not me, Fair uncle: should I cleave the crown in twain And gird thy temples with the goodlier half, Think’st thou my debt might so be paid again— Thy sceptre made a more imperial staff Than sways as now thy hill-folk? CAMBER. Dost thou laugh? Were this too much for kings to give and take? If warrior Wales do battle for thy sake, Should I that kept thy crown for thee be held Worth less than royal guerdon? MADAN. Keep thine own, And let the loud fierce knaves thy brethren quelled Ward off the wolves whose hides should line thy throne, Wert thou no coward, no recreant to the bone, No liar in spirit and soul and heartless heart, No slave, no traitor—nought of all thou art. A thing like thee, made big with braggart breath, Whose tongue shoots fire, whose promise poisons trust, Would cast a shieldless soldier forth to death And wreck three realms to sate his rancorous lust With ruin of them who have weighed and found him dust. Get thee to Wales: there strut in speech and swell: And thence betimes God speed thee safe to hell. [ Exeunt severally . ACT IV. Scene I.— The banks of the Ley . Enter Locrine and Estrild . LOCRINE. If thou didst ever love me, love me now. I am weary at heart of all on earth save thee. And yet I lie: and yet I lie not.  Thou— Dost thou not think for love’s sake scorn of me? ESTRILD. As earth of heaven: as morning of the sun. LOCRINE. Nay, what thinks evening, whom he leaves undone? ESTRILD. Thou madest me queen and woman: though my life Were taken, these thou couldst not take again, The gifts thou gavest me.  More am I than wife, Whom, till my tyrant by thy strength were slain And by thy love my servile shame cast out, My naked sorrows clothed and girt about With princelier pride than binds the brows of queens, Thou sawest of all things least and lowest alive. What means thy doubt? LOCRINE. Fear knows not what it means: And I was fearful even of clouds that drive Across the dawn, and die—of all, of nought— Winds whispering on the darkling ways of thought, Sunbeams that flash like fire, and hopes like fears That slay themselves, and live again, and die. But in mine eyes thy light is, in mine ears Thy music: I am thine, and more than I, Being half of thy sweet soul. ESTRILD. Woe worth me then! For one requires thee wholly. LOCRINE. Guendolen? ESTRILD. I said she was the fairer—and I lied not. LOCRINE. Thou art the fairest fool alive. ESTRILD. But she, Being wise, exceeds me: yet, so she divide not Thine heart, my best-beloved of liars, with me, I care not—nor I will not care.  Some part She hath had, it may be, of thy fond false heart— Nay, couldst thou choose? but now, though she be fairer, Let her take all or none: I will not be Partaker of her perfect sway, nor sharer With any on earth more dear or less to thee. Nay, be not wroth: what wilt thou have me say? That I can love thee less than she can?  Nay, Thou knowest I will not ill to her; but she— Would she not burn my child and me with fire To wreak herself, who loved thee once, on thee? LOCRINE. Thy fear is darker, child, than her desire. ESTRILD. I fear not her at all: I would not fear The one thing fearful to me yet, who here Sit walled around with waters and with woods From all things fearful but the fear of change. LOCRINE. Fear thou not that: for nothing born eludes Time; and the joy were sorrowful and strange That should endure for ever.  Yea, I think Such joy would pray for sorrow’s cup to drink, Such constancy desire an end, for mere Long weariness of watching.  Thou and I Have all our will of life and loving here,— A heavenlier heaven on earth: but we shall die, And if we died not, love we might outlive As now shall love outlive us. ESTRILD. We? LOCRINE. Forgive! ESTRILD. King! and I held thee more than man! LOCRINE. God wot, Thou art more than I—more strong and wise; I know Thou couldst not live one hour if love were not. ESTRILD. And thou?— LOCRINE. I would not.  All the world were woe, And all the day night, if the love I bear thee Were plucked out of the life wherein I wear thee As crown and comfort of its nights and days. ESTRILD. Thou liest—for love’s sake and for mine—and I Lie not, who swear by thee whereon I gaze I hold no truth so hallowed as the lie Wherewith my love redeems me from the snare Dark doubt had set to take me. LOCRINE. Wilt thou swear —By what thou wilt soever—by the sun That sees us—by the light of all these flowers— By this full stream whose waves we hear not run— By all that is nor mine nor thine, but ours— That thou didst ever doubt indeed? or dream That doubt, whose breath bids love of love misdeem, Were other than the child of hate and hell, The liar first-born of falsehood? ESTRILD. Nay—I think— God help me!—hardly.  Never? can I tell? When half our soul and all our senses sink From dream to dream down deathward, slain with sleep, How may faith hold assurance fast, or keep Her power to cast out fear for love’s sake? LOCRINE. Could doubt not thee, waking or sleeping. ESTRILD. No— Thou art not mad.  How should the sunlit sky Betray the sun? cast out the sunshine?  So Art thou to me as light to heaven: should light Die, were not heaven as hell and noon as night? And wherefore should I hold more dear than life Death?  Could I live, and lack thee?  Thou, O king, Hast lands and lordships—and a royal wife— And rule of seas that tire the seamew’s wing— And fame as far as fame can travel; I, What have I save this home wherein to die, Except thou love me?  Nay, nor home were this, No place to die or live in, were I sure Thou didst not love me.  Swear not by this kiss That love lives longer—faith may more endure— Than one poor kiss that passes with the breath Of lips that gave it life at once and death. Why shouldst thou swear, and wherefore should I trust? When day shall drive not night from heaven, and night Shall chase not day to deathward, then shall dust Be constant—and the stars endure the sight Of dawn that shall not slay them. LOCRINE. By thine eyes —Turned stormier now than stars in bare-blown skies Wherethrough the wind rings menace,—I will swear Nought: so shall fear, mistrust, and jealous hate Lie foodless, if not fangless.  Thou, so fair That heaven might change for thee the seal of fate, How darest thou doubt thy power on souls of men? ESTRILD. What vows were those that won thee Guendolen? LOCRINE. I sware not so to her.  Thou knowest— ESTRILD. Not I. Thou knowest that I know nothing. LOCRINE. Nay, I know That nothing lives under the sweet blue sky Worth thy sweet heeding, wouldst thou think but so, Save love—wherewith thou seest thy world fulfilled. ESTRILD. Ay,—would I see but with thine eyes. LOCRINE. Estrild, Estrild! ESTRILD. No soft reiterance of my name Can sing my sorrow down that comes and goes And colours hope with fear and love with shame. Rose hast thou called me: were I like the rose, Happier were I than woman: she survives Not by one hour, like us of longer lives, The sun she lives in and the love he gives And takes away: but we, when love grows sere, Live yet, while trust in love no longer lives, Nor drink for comfort with the dying year Death. LOCRINE. Wouldst thou drink forgetfulness for wine To heal thine heart of love toward me? ESTRILD. Locrine, Locrine! LOCRINE. Thou wouldst not: do not mock me then, Saying out of evil heart, in evil jest, Thy trust is dead to meward. ESTRILD. King of men, Wouldst thou, being only of all men lordliest, Be lord of women’s thoughts and loving fears? Nay, wert thou less than lord of worlds and years, Of stars and suns and seasons, couldst thou dream To take such empire on thee? LOCRINE. Nay, not I— No more than she there playing beside the stream To slip within a stormier stream and die. ESTRILD. She runs too near the brink.  Sabrina! LOCRINE. See, Her hands are lily-laden: let them be A flower-sweet symbol for us. Enter Sabrina . SABRINA. Sire!  O sire, See what fresh flowers—you knew not these before— The spring has brought, to serve my heart’s desire, Forth of the river’s barren bed! no more Will I rebuke these banks for sterile sloth When spring restores the woodlands.  By my troth, I hoped not, when you came again, to bring So large a tribute worth so full a smile. LOCRINE. Child! how should I to thee pay tribute? ESTRILD. King, Thou hast not kissed her. LOCRINE. Dare my lips defile Heaven?  O my love, in sight of her and thee I marvel how the sun should look on me And spare to turn his beams to fire. ESTRILD. The child Hears, and is troubled. SABRINA. Did I wrong, to say ‘Sire?’ but you bade me say so.  He is mild, And will not chide me.  Father! ESTRILD. Hear’st thou? LOCRINE. Yea— I hear.  I would the world beyond our sight Were dead as worlds forgotten. ESTRILD. Wouldst thou fright Her? LOCRINE. Hath all sense forsaken me?  Sabrina, Thou dost not fear me? SABRINA. No.  But when your eyes Wax red and dark, with flaughts of fire between, I fear them—or they fright me. LOCRINE. Wert thou wise, They would not.  Never have I looked on thee So. SABRINA. Nay—I fear not what might fall on me. Here laughs my father—here my mother smiles— Here smiles and laughs the water—what should I Fear? LOCRINE. Nought more fearful than the water’s wiles— Which whoso fears not ere he fear shall die. SABRINA. Die? and is death no less an ill than dread? I had liefer die than be nor quick nor dead. I think there is no death but fear of death. LOCRINE. Of death or life or anything but love What knowest thou? SABRINA. Less than these, my mother saith— Less than the flowers that seeing all heaven above Fade and wax hoar or darken, lose their trust And leave their joy and let their glories rust And die for fear ere winter wound them: we Live no less glad of snowtime than of spring: It cannot change my father’s face for me Nor turn from mine away my mother’s.  King They call thee: hath thy kingship made thee less In height of heart than we are? LOCRINE. No, and yes. Here sits my heart at height of hers and thine, Laughing for love: here not the quiring birds Sing higher than sings my spirit: I am here Locrine, Whom no sound vexes here of swords or words, No cloud of thought or thunder: were my life Crowned but as lord and sire of child and wife, Throned but as prince of woodland, bank and bower, My joys were then imperial, and my state Firm as a star, that now is as a flower. SABRINA. Thou shouldst not then—if joy grow here so great— Part from us. LOCRINE. No: for joy grows elsewhere scant. SABRINA. I would fain see the towers of Troynovant. LOCRINE. God keep thine eyes fulfilled with sweeter sights, And this one from them ever! SABRINA. Why?  Men say Thine halls are full of guests, princes and knights, And lordly musters of superb array; Why are we thence alone, and alway? ESTRILD. Peace, Child: let thy babble change its note, or cease Here; is thy sire not wiser—by God’s grace— Than I or thou? LOCRINE. Wouldst thou too see fulfilled The fear whose shadow fallen on joy’s fair face Strikes it more sad than sorrow’s own?  Estrild, Wast thou then happier ere this wildwood shrine Hid thee from homage, left thee but Locrine For worshipper less worthy grace of thee Than those thy sometime suppliants? ESTRILD. Nay; my lord Takes too much thought—if tongues ring true—for me. LOCRINE. Such tongues ring falser than a broken chord Whose jar distunes the music. ESTRILD. Wilt thou stay But three nights here? LOCRINE. I had need be hence today. ESTRILD. Go. SABRINA. But I bid thee tarry; what am I That thou shouldst heed not what I bid thee? LOCRINE. Queen And empress more imperious and more high And regent royaller than time hath seen And mightier mistress of thy sire and thrall: Yet must I go.  But ere the next moon fall Again will I grow happy. ESTRILD. Who can say? LOCRINE. So much can I—except the stars combine Unseasonably to stay me. ESTRILD. Let them stay The tides, the seasons rather.  Love!  Locrine! I never parted from thee, nor shall part, Save with a fire more keen than fire at heart: But now the pang that wrings me, soul and sense, And turns fair day to darkness deep as hell, Warns me, the word that seals thy parting hence— ‘Farewell’—shall bid us never more fare well. SABRINA. Lo! she too bids thee tarry; dost thou not Hear? LOCRINE. Might I choose, small need were hers, God wot, Or thine, to bid me tarry.  When I come Again— SABRINA. Thou shalt not see me: I will hide From sight of such a sire—or bow down dumb Before him—strong and hard as he in pride— And so thou shalt not hear me. LOCRINE. Who can tell? So now say I. ESTRILD. God keep my lord! LOCRINE. Farewell. [ Exeunt . Scene II.— Troynovant . A Room in the Palace . Enter Guendolen and Madan . GUENDOLEN. Come close, and look upon me.  Child or man,— I know not how to call thee, being my child, Who know not how myself am called, nor can— God witness—tell thee what should she be styled Who bears the brand and burden set on her That man hath set on me—the lands are wild Whence late I bade thee hither, swift of spur As he that rides to guard his mother’s life; Thou hast found nought loathlier there, nought hate-fuller In all the wilds that seethe with fluctuant strife, Than here besets thine advent.  Son, if thou Be son of mine, and I thy father’s wife— MADAN. If heaven be heaven, and God be God. GUENDOLEN. As now We know not if they be.  Give me thine hand. Thou hast mine eyes beneath thy father’s brow,— And therefore bears it not the traitor’s brand. Swear—But I would not bid thee swear in vain Nor bind thee ere thine own soul understand, Ere thine own heart be molten with my pain, To do such work for bitter love of me As haply, knowing my heart, thou wert not fain— Even thou—to take upon thee—bind on thee— Set all thy soul to do or die. MADAN. I swear. GUENDOLEN. And though thou sworest not, yet the thing should be. The burden found for me so sore to bear Why should I lay on any hand but mine, Or bid thine own take part therein, and wear A father’s blood upon it—here—for sign? Ay, now thou pluck’st it forth of hers to whom Thou sworest and gavest it plighted.  O Locrine, Thy seed it was that sprang within my womb, Thine, and none other—traitor born and liar, False-faced, false-tongued—the fire of hell consume Me, thee, and him for ever! MADAN. Hath my sire Wronged thee? GUENDOLEN. Thy sire? my lord? the flower of men? How? MADAN. For thy tongue was tipped but now with fire— With fire of hell—against him. GUENDOLEN. Now, and then, Are twain; thou knowest not women, how their tongue Takes fire, and straight learns patience: Guendolen Is there no more than crownless woman, wrung At heart with anguish, and in utterance mad As even the meanest whom a snake hath stung So near the heart that all the pulse it had Grows palpitating poison.  Wilt thou know Whence? MADAN. Could I heal it, then mine own were glad. GUENDOLEN. What think’st thou were the bitterest wrong, the woe Least bearable by woman, worst of all That man might lay upon her?  Nay, thou art slow: Speak: though thou speak but folly.  Silent?  Call To mind whatso thou hast ever heard of ill Most monstrous, that should turn to fire and gall The milk and blood of maid or mother—still Thou shalt not find, I think, what he hath done— What I endure, and die not.  For my will It is that holds me yet alive, O son, Till all my wrong be wroken, here to keep Fast watch, a living soul before the sun, Anhungered and athirst for night and sleep, That will not slake the ravin of her thirst Nor quench her fire of hunger, till she reap The harvest loved of all men, last as first— Vengeance. MADAN. What wrong is this he hath done thee?  Words Are edgeless weapons: live we blest or curst, No jot the more of evil or good engirds The life with bitterest curses compassed round Or girt about with blessing.  Hinds and herds Wage threats and brawl and wrangle: wind and sound Suffice their souls for vengeance: we require Deeds, and till place for these and time be found Silence.  What bids thee bid me slay my sire? GUENDOLEN. I praise the gods that gave me thee: thine heart Is none of his, no changeling’s in desire, No coward’s as who begat thee: mine thou art All, and mine only.  Lend me now thine ear: Thou knowest— MADAN. What anguish holds thy lips apart And strikes thee silent?  Am I bound to hear What thou to speak art bound not? GUENDOLEN. How my lord, Our lord, thy sire—the king whose throne is here Imperial—smote and drove the wolf-like horde That raged against us from the raging east, And how their chief sank in the unsounded ford He thought to traverse, till the floods increased Against him, and he perished: and Locrine Found in his camp for sovereign spoil to feast The sense of power with lustier joy than wine A woman—Dost thou mock me? MADAN. And a fair Woman, if all men lie not, mother mine— I have heard so much.  And then? GUENDOLEN. Thou dost not dare Mock me? MADAN. I know not what should make thee mad Though this and worse, howbeit it irk thee, were. Art thou discrowned, dethroned, disrobed, unclad Of empire? art thou powerless, bloodless, old? This were some hurt: but now—thou shouldst be glad To take this chance upon thee, and to hold So large a lordly happiness in hand As when my father’s and thy lord’s is cold Shall leave in thine the sway of all this land. GUENDOLEN. And thou? no she-wolf whelps upon the wold Whose brood is like thy mother’s. MADAN. Nay—I stand A man thy son before thee. GUENDOLEN. And a bold Man: is thine heart flesh, or a burning brand Lit to burn up and turn for thee to gold The kingship of thy sire? MADAN. Why, blessed or banned, We thrive alike—thou knowest it—why, but now I said so,—scarce the glass has dropped one sand— And thou didst smile on me—and all thy brow Smiled. GUENDOLEN. Thou dost love then, thou, thy mother yet— Me, dost thou love a little?  None but thou There is to love me; for the gods forget— Nor shall one hear of me a prayer again; Yea, none of all whose thrones in heaven are set Shall hear, nor one of all the sons of men. MADAN. What wouldst thou have? GUENDOLEN. Thou knowest. MADAN. I know not.  Speak. GUENDOLEN. Have I kept silence all this while? MADAN. What then? What boots it though thy word, thine eye, thy cheek, Seem all one fire together, if that fire Sink, and thy face change, and thine heart wax weak, To hear what deed should slake thy sore desire And satiate thee with healing?  This alone— Except thine heart be softer toward my sire Still than a maid’s who hears a wood-dove moan And weeps for pity—this should comfort thee: His death.

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