GUENDOLEN. Ay! wilt thou slay me then—and slay me here? LOCRINE. Mock not thy wrath and me. No hair of thine Would I—thou knowest it—hurt; nor vex thine ear With answering wrath more vain than fumes of wine. I have wronged and yet not wronged thee. Whence or when Strange whispers rose that turned thy heart from mine I would not know for shame’s sake, Guendolen, And honour’s that I bear thee. GUENDOLEN. Didst thou deem I would outlive with thee the scorn of men, A slave enthroned beside a traitor? Seem These eyes and lips and hands of mine a slave’s Uplift for mercy toward thee? Such a dream Sets realms on fire, and turns their fields to graves. LOCRINE. No dream is mine that does thee less than right: Albeit thy words be wild as warring waves, I know thee higher of heart than shame could smite And queenlier than thy queenship. GUENDOLEN. Dost the know What day records to day and night to night— How he whose wrath was rained as hail or snow On Troy’s adulterous towers, when treacherous flame Devoured them, and our fathers’ roofs lay low, And all their praise was turned to fire and shame— All-righteous God, who herds the stars of heaven As sheep within his sheepfold—God, whose name Compels the wandering clouds to service, given As surely as even the sun’s is—loves or hates Treason? He loved our sires: were they forgiven? Their walls upreared of gods, their sevenfold gates, Might these keep out his justice? What art thou To make thy will more strong and sure than fate’s? Thy fate am I, that falls upon thee now. Wilt thou not slay me yet—and slay thy son? So shall thy fate change, and unbend the brow That now looks mortal on thee. LOCRINE. What is done Lies now past help or pleading: nor would I Plead with thee, knowing that love henceforth is none Nor trust between us till the day we die. Yet, if thy name be woman,—if thine heart Be not burnt up with fire of hell, and lie Not wounded even to death—albeit we part, Let there not be between us war, but peace, Though love may be not. GUENDOLEN.