LOCRINE. Is this the grief that wrings and vexes thine? GUENDOLEN. Thy mother laughed when thou wast born, Locrine. LOCRINE. Did she not well? sweet laughter speaks not scorn. GUENDOLEN. And thou didst laugh, and wept’st not, to be born. LOCRINE. Did I then ill? didst thou, then, weep to be? GUENDOLEN. The same star lit not thee to birth and me. LOCRINE. Thine eyes took light, then, from the fairer star. GUENDOLEN. Nay; thine was nigh the sun, and mine afar. LOCRINE. Too bright was thine to need the neighbouring sun. GUENDOLEN. Nay, all its life of light was wellnigh done. LOCRINE. If all on thee its light and life were shed And darkness on thy birthday struck it dead, It died most happy, leaving life and light More fair and full in loves more thankful sight. GUENDOLEN. Art thou so thankful, king, for love’s kind sake? Would I were worthier thanks like these I take! For thanks I cannot render thee again. LOCRINE. Too heavy sits thy sorrow, Guendolen, Upon thy spirit of life: I bid thee not Take comfort while the fire of grief is hot Still at thine heart, and scarce thy last keen tear Dried: yet the gods have left thee comfort here. GUENDOLEN. Comfort? In thee, fair cousin—or my son? LOCRINE. What hast thou done, Madan, or left undone? Toward thee and me thy mother’s mood to-day Seems less than loving. MADAN. Sire, I cannot say. LOCRINE. Enough: an hour or half an hour is more Than wrangling words should stuff with barren store. Comfort may’st thou bring to her, if I may none, When all her father quickens in her son. In Cornish warfare if thou win thee praise, Thine shall men liken to thy grandsire’s days. GUENDOLEN. To Cornwall must he fare and fight for thee? LOCRINE. If heart be his—and if thy will it be. GUENDOLEN. What is my will worth more than wind or foam? LOCRINE. Why, leave is thine to hold him here at home. GUENDOLEN. What power is mine to speed him or to stay? LOCRINE. None—should thy child cast love and shame away. GUENDOLEN. Most duteous wast thou to thy sire—and mine.