FRONIA. Hatred conceal’d doth often hap to hurt, But once profess’d, it oft’ner fails revenge. How better tho’ wert to repress your ire: A lady’s best revenge is to forgive. What mean is in your hate? how much soe’er You can invent or dare, so much you hate. GUENEVERA. And would you know what mean there is in hate? Call love to mind, and see what mean is there! My love, redoubled love, and constant faith Engaged unto Mordred works so deep, That both my heart and marrow quite be burnt, And sinews dried with force of wontless flames. Desire to joy him still torments my mind: Fear of his want doth add a double grief. Lo, here the love that stirs this meanless hate! FRONIA. Eschew it far: such love impugns the laws. GUENEVERA. Unlawful love doth like, when lawful loathes. FRONIA. And is your love of husband quite extinct? GUENEVERA. The greater flame must needs delay the less: Besides, his sore revenge I greatly fear. FRONIA. How can you then attempt a fresh offence? GUENEVERA. Who can appoint a stint to her offence? FRONIA. But here the greatness of the fact should move. GUENEVERA. The greater it, the fitter for my grief. FRONIA. To kill your spouse? GUENEVERA. A stranger and a foe. FRONIA. Your liege and king. GUENEVERA. He wants both realm and crown. FRONIA. Nature affords not to your sex such strength. GUENEVERA. Love, anguish, wrath, will soon afford enough. FRONIA. What rage is this? GUENEVERA. Such as himself shall rue. FRONIA. Whom Gods do press enough, will you annoy? GUENEVERA. Whom Gods do press, they bend; whom man annoys, He breaks. FRONIA. Your grief is more than his deserts. Each fault requires an equal hate: be not severe, Where crimes be light. As you have felt, so grieve. GUENEVERA. And seems it light to want him nine year space Then to be spoil’d of one I hold more dear? Think all too much, b’it ne’er so just, that feeds Continual grief: the lasting woe is worst. FRONIA. Yet let your highness shun these desperate moods: Cast off this rage and fell-disposed mind. Put not shame quite to flight: have some regard Both of your sex and future fame of life. Use no such cruel thoughts, as far exceed A manly mind, much more a woman’s heart. GUENEVERA. Well, shame is not so quite exil’d, but that I can and will respect your sage advice. Your counsel I accept: give leave a while, Till fiery wrath may slake, and rage relent. [_Exit Fronia._ THE THIRD SCENE. GUENEVERA, ANGHARAT. GUENEVERA. The love, that for his rage will not be rul’d, Must be restrain’d: fame shall receive no foil. Let Arthur live; whereof to make him sure Myself will die, and so prevent his harms. Why stayest thou thus amaz’d, O slothful wrath? Mischief is meant; despatch it on thyself.