LOCRINE. Yea, I know Our son hath given the wolf our foes for food And won him worthy praise from friend or foe; And heartier praise and trustier thanks from none, Boy, than thy father pays thee. GUENDOLEN. Wouldst thou show Thy love, thy thanks, thy fatherhood in one, Thy perfect honour—yea, thy right to stand Crowned, and lift up thine eyes against the sun As one so pure in heart, so clean of hand, So loyal and so royal, none might cast A word against thee burning like a brand, A sound that withers honour, and makes fast The bondage of a recreant soul to shame— Thou shouldst, or ever an hour be overpast, Slay him. LOCRINE. Thou art mad. GUENDOLEN. What, is not then thy name Locrine? and hath this boy done ill to thee? Hath he not won him for thy love’s sake fame? Hath he not served thee loyally? is he So much thy son, so little son of mine, That men might call him traitor? May they see The brand across his brow that reddens thine? How shouldst thou dare—how dream—to let him live? Is he not loyal? art not thou Locrine? What less than death for guerdon shouldst thou give My son who hath done thee service? Me thou hast given— Who hast found me truer than falsehood can forgive— Shame for my guerdon: yea, my heart is riven With shame that once I loved thee. LOCRINE. Guendolen, A woman’s wrath should rest not unforgiven Save of the slightest of the sons of men: And no such slight and shameful thing am I As would not yield thee pardon. GUENDOLEN. Slay me then. LOCRINE. Thee, or thy son? but now thou bad’st him die. GUENDOLEN. Thou liest: I bade thee slay him. LOCRINE. Art thou mad Indeed? GUENDOLEN. O liar, is all the world a lie? I bade thee, knowing thee what thou art—I bade My lord and king and traitor slay my son— A heartless hand that lacks the power it had Smite one whose stroke shall leave it strengthless—one Whose loyal loathing of his shame in thee Shall cast it out of eyeshot of the sun. LOCRINE. Thou bad’st me slay him that he might—he, slay me? GUENDOLEN. Thou hast said—and yet thou hast lied not. LOCRINE. Hell’s own hate Brought never forth such fruit as thine. GUENDOLEN.