Did I bid thee Mock, and forget me for thy friend—I say not, King? Is thy heart so light and lean a thing, So loose in faith and faint in love? I bade thee Stand to me, help me, hold my hand in thine And give my heart back answer. This it is, Old friend and fool, that gnaws my life in twain— The worm that writhes and feeds about my heart— The devil and God are crying in either ear One murderous word for ever, night and day, Dark day and deadly night and deadly day, Can she love thee who slewest her father? I Love her. NARSETES. Thy wife should love thee as thy sire’s Loved him. Thou art worth a woman—heart for heart. ALBOVINE. My sire’s wife loved him? Hers he had not slain. Would God I might but die and burn in hell And know my love had loved me! NARSETES. Is thy name Babe? Sweet are babes as flowers that wed the sun, But man may be not born a babe again, And less than man may woman. Rosamund Stands radiant now in royal pride of place As wife of thine and queen of Lombards—not Cunimund’s daughter. Hadst thou slain her sire Shamefully, shame were thine to have sought her hand And shame were hers to love thee: but he died Manfully, by thy mightier hand than his Manfully mastered. War, born blind as fire, Fed not as fire upon her: many a maid As royal dies disrobed of all but shame And even to death burnt up for shame’s sake: she Lives, by thy grace, imperial. ALBOVINE. He or I, Her lord or sire, which hath most part in her, This hour shall try between us. _Enter_ ROSAMUND. ROSAMUND. Royal lord, Thy wedded handmaid craves of thee a grace. ALBOVINE. My sovereign bids her bondman what she will. ROSAMUND. I bid thee mock me not: I may ask thee Aught, and be heard of any save my lord. ALBOVINE. Go, friend. [_Exit_ NARSETES.] Speak now. Say first what ails thee? ROSAMUND. Me? ALBOVINE. Thy voice was honey-hearted music, sweet As wine and glad as clarions: not in battle Might man have more of joy than I to hear it And feel delight dance in my heart and laugh Too loud for hearing save its own. Thou rose, Why did God give thee more than all thy kin Whose pride is perfume only and colour, this? Music? No rose but mine sings, and the birds Hush all their hearts to hearken. Dost thou hear not How heavy sounds her note now? ROSAMUND. Sire, not I. But sire I should not call thee. ALBOVINE.