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.