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.