Why? Men say
Thine halls are full of guests, princes and knights,
And lordly musters of superb array;
Why are we thence alone, and alway?
ESTRILD.
Peace,
Child: let thy babble change its note, or cease
Here; is thy sire not wiser—by God’s grace—
Than I or thou?
LOCRINE.
Wouldst thou too see fulfilled
The fear whose shadow fallen on joy’s fair face
Strikes it more sad than sorrow’s own? Estrild,
Wast thou then happier ere this wildwood shrine
Hid thee from homage, left thee but Locrine
For worshipper less worthy grace of thee
Than those thy sometime suppliants?
ESTRILD.
Nay; my lord
Takes too much thought—if tongues ring true—for me.
LOCRINE.
Such tongues ring falser than a broken chord
Whose jar distunes the music.
ESTRILD.
Wilt thou stay
But three nights here?
LOCRINE.
I had need be hence today.
ESTRILD.
Go.
SABRINA.
But I bid thee tarry; what am I
That thou shouldst heed not what I bid thee?
LOCRINE.
Queen
And empress more imperious and more high
And regent royaller than time hath seen
And mightier mistress of thy sire and thrall:
Yet must I go. But ere the next moon fall
Again will I grow happy.
ESTRILD.
Who can say?
LOCRINE.
So much can I—except the stars combine
Unseasonably to stay me.
ESTRILD.
Let them stay
The tides, the seasons rather. Love! Locrine!
I never parted from thee, nor shall part,
Save with a fire more keen than fire at heart:
But now the pang that wrings me, soul and sense,
And turns fair day to darkness deep as hell,
Warns me, the word that seals thy parting hence—
‘Farewell’—shall bid us never more fare well.
SABRINA.
Lo! she too bids thee tarry; dost thou not
Hear?
LOCRINE.
Might I choose, small need were hers, God wot,
Or thine, to bid me tarry. When I come
Again—
SABRINA.
Thou shalt not see me: I will hide
From sight of such a sire—or bow down dumb
Before him—strong and hard as he in pride—
And so thou shalt not hear me.
LOCRINE.
Who can tell?
So now say I.
ESTRILD.
God keep my lord!
LOCRINE.
Farewell.
[_Exeunt_.
SCENE II.—_Troynovant_. _A Room in the Palace_.
_Enter_ GUENDOLEN _and_ MADAN.
GUENDOLEN.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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