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.