What think’st thou were the bitterest wrong, the woe Least bearable by woman, worst of all That man might lay upon her? Nay, thou art slow: Speak: though thou speak but folly. Silent? Call To mind whatso thou hast ever heard of ill Most monstrous, that should turn to fire and gall The milk and blood of maid or mother—still Thou shalt not find, I think, what he hath done— What I endure, and die not. For my will It is that holds me yet alive, O son, Till all my wrong be wroken, here to keep Fast watch, a living soul before the sun, Anhungered and athirst for night and sleep, That will not slake the ravin of her thirst Nor quench her fire of hunger, till she reap The harvest loved of all men, last as first— Vengeance. MADAN. What wrong is this he hath done thee? Words Are edgeless weapons: live we blest or curst, No jot the more of evil or good engirds The life with bitterest curses compassed round Or girt about with blessing. Hinds and herds Wage threats and brawl and wrangle: wind and sound Suffice their souls for vengeance: we require Deeds, and till place for these and time be found Silence. What bids thee bid me slay my sire? GUENDOLEN. I praise the gods that gave me thee: thine heart Is none of his, no changeling’s in desire, No coward’s as who begat thee: mine thou art All, and mine only. Lend me now thine ear: Thou knowest— MADAN. What anguish holds thy lips apart And strikes thee silent? Am I bound to hear What thou to speak art bound not? GUENDOLEN. How my lord, Our lord, thy sire—the king whose throne is here Imperial—smote and drove the wolf-like horde That raged against us from the raging east, And how their chief sank in the unsounded ford He thought to traverse, till the floods increased Against him, and he perished: and Locrine Found in his camp for sovereign spoil to feast The sense of power with lustier joy than wine A woman—Dost thou mock me? MADAN. And a fair Woman, if all men lie not, mother mine— I have heard so much. And then? GUENDOLEN. Thou dost not dare Mock me? MADAN. I know not what should make thee mad Though this and worse, howbeit it irk thee, were. Art thou discrowned, dethroned, disrobed, unclad Of empire? art thou powerless, bloodless, old? This were some hurt: but now—thou shouldst be glad To take this chance upon thee, and to hold So large a lordly happiness in hand As when my father’s and thy lord’s is cold Shall leave in thine the sway of all this land. GUENDOLEN. And thou? no she-wolf whelps upon the wold Whose brood is like thy mother’s.