Not thou! No part have I—nay, never had I part— Our child that hears me knows it—in thine heart. Thy sire it was that bade our hands be one For love of mine, his brother: thou, his son, Didst give not—no—but yield thy hand to mine, To mine thy lips—not thee to me, Locrine. Thy heart has dwelt far off me all these years; Yet have I never sought with smiles or tears To lure or melt it meward. I have borne— I that have borne to thee this boy—thy scorn, Thy gentleness, thy tender words that bite More deep than shame would, shouldst thou spurn or smite These limbs and lips made thine by contract—made No wife’s, no queen’s—a servant’s—nay, thy shade. The shadow am I, my lord and king, of thee, Who art spirit and substance, body and soul to me. And now,—nay, speak not—now my sire is dead Thou think’st to cast me crownless from thy bed Wherein I brought thee forth a son that now Shall perish with me, if thou wilt—and thou Shalt live and laugh to think of us—or yet Play faith more foul—play falser, and forget. LOCRINE. Sharp grief has crazed thy brain. Thou knowest of me— GUENDOLEN. I know that nought I know, Locrine, of thee. LOCRINE. What bids thee then revile me, knowing no cause? GUENDOLEN. Strong sorrow knows but sorrow’s lawless laws. LOCRINE. Yet these should turn not grief to raging fire. GUENDOLEN. They should not, had my heart my heart’s desire. LOCRINE. Would God that love, my queen, could give thee this! GUENDOLEN. Thou dost not call me wife—nor call’st amiss. LOCRINE. What name should serve to stay this fitful strife? GUENDOLEN. Thou dost not ill to call me not thy wife. LOCRINE. My sister wellnigh wast thou once: and now— GUENDOLEN. Thy sister never I: my brother thou. LOCRINE. How shall man sound this riddle? Read it me. GUENDOLEN. As loves a sister, never loved I thee. LOCRINE. Not when we played as twinborn child with child? GUENDOLEN. If then thou thought’st it, both were sore beguiled. LOCRINE. I thought thee sweeter then than summer doves. GUENDOLEN. Yet not like theirs—woe worth it!—were our loves. LOCRINE. No—for they meet and flit again apart. GUENDOLEN. And we live linked, inseparate—heart in heart.