But he Is the issue of thy love and mine, by fate Made one to no good issue. Didst thou trust That grief should give to men disconsolate Comfort, and treason bring forth truth, and dust Blossom? What love, what reverence, what regard, Shouldst thou desire, if God or man be just, Of this thy son, or me more evil-starred, Whom scorn salutes his mother? LOCRINE. How should scorn Draw near thee, girt about with power for guard, Power and good fame? unless reproach be born Of these thy violent vanities of mood That fight against thine honour. GUENDOLEN. Dost thou mourn For that? Too careful art thou for my good, Too tender and too true to me and mine, For shame to make my heart or thine his food Or scorn lay hold upon my fame or thine. Art thou not pure as honour’s perfect heart— Not treason-cankered like my lord Locrine, Whose likeness shows thee fairer than thou art And falser than thy loving care of me Would bid my faith believe thee? LOCRINE. What strange part Is this that changing passion plays in thee? Know’st thou me not? GUENDOLEN. Yea—witness heaven and hell, And all the lights that lighten earth and sea, And all that wrings my heart, I know thee well. How should I love and hate and know thee not? LOCRINE. Thy voice is as the sound of dead love’s knell. GUENDOLEN. Long since my heart has tolled it—and forgot All save the cause that bade the death-bell sound And cease and bring forth silence. LOCRINE. Is thy lot Less fair and royal, girt with power and crowned,— Than might fulfil the loftiest heart’s desire? GUENDOLEN. Not air but fire it is that rings me round— Thy voice makes all my brain a wheel of fire. Man, what have I to do with pride of power? Such pride perchance it was that moved my sire To bid me wed—woe worth the woful hour!— His brother’s son, the brother’s born above Him as above me thou, the crown and flower Of Britain, gentler-hearted than the dove And mightier than the sunward eagle’s wing: But nought moved me save one thing only—love. LOCRINE. I know it. GUENDOLEN. Thou knowest? but this thou knowest not, king, How near of kin are bitter love and hate— Nor which of these may be the deadlier thing. LOCRINE. What wouldst thou? GUENDOLEN. Death. Would God my heart were great! Then would I slay myself. LOCRINE. I dare not fear That heaven hath marked for thee no fairer fate.