Thou, Locrine? Today thou knowest not, nor wilt learn tomorrow, The secret sense of such a word as sorrow. Thy spirit is soft and sweet: I well believe Thou wouldst, but well I know thou canst not grieve. The tears like fire, the fire that burns up tears, The blind wild woe that seals up eyes and ears, The sound of raging silence in the brain That utters things unutterable for pain, The thirst at heart that cries on death for ease, What knows thy soul’s live sense of pangs like these? LOCRINE. Is no love left thee then for comfort? GUENDOLEN. Thine? LOCRINE. Thy son’s may serve thee, though thou mock at mine. GUENDOLEN. Ay—when he comes again from Cornwall. LOCRINE. Nay; If now his absence irk thee, bid him stay. GUENDOLEN. I will not—yea, I would not, though I might. Go, child: God guard and grace thine hand in fight! MADAN. My heart shall give it grace to guard my head. LOCRINE. Well thought, my son: but scarce of thee well said. MADAN. No skill of speech have I: words said or sung Help me no more than hand is helped of tongue: Yet, would some better wit than mine, I wis, Help mine, I fain would render thanks for this. GUENDOLEN. Think not the boy I bare thee too much mine, Though slack of speech and halting: I divine Thou shalt not find him faint of heart or hand, Come what may come against him. LOCRINE. Nay, this land Bears not alive, nor bare it ere we came, Such bloodless hearts as know not fame from shame, Or quail for hope’s sake, or more faithless fear, From truth of single-sighted manhood, here Born and bred up to read the word aright That sunders man from beast as day from night. That red rank Ireland where men burn and slay Girls, old men, children, mothers, sires, and say These wolves and swine that skulk and strike do well, As soon might know sweet heaven from ravenous hell. GUENDOLEN.