What, have I played the Berserk with my friend? So should not kings. What meant he? Men wax old, And age eats out the natural sense of love Which gives the soul sight of such nobler things As trust may see by grace of truth more fair Than doubt would fear to dream of. Rosamund Knows more by might of faith and love than he. And yet I would, and yet I would not, fool As even in mine own eyes I am, she had not Given me this proof, desired of me this sign, How clear her soul is toward me save of love, To attest her pardon of me. Would it were Sunrise to-morrow! _Enter_ ALMACHILDES _and_ HILDEGARD. Whence come these, to bring Sunrise about me? Nay, I bade you be Here. Does thy memory too not fail thee, boy, Burnt out by stress of summer ALMACHILDES. No. ALBOVINE. Nor hers? HILDEGARD. How might it, king? Thou art good to us. ALBOVINE. All things born Seem good to lovers in their spring of love, And all men should be. Maiden, God doth well To give us foresight of the sight of heaven By looking in such eyes as love like thine Kindles and veils for love’s sake. Fain was I To see my boy’s bride and her bridegroom here Before the feast broke in on us, and bless Their love with mine—if mine be blessing. HILDEGARD. Sire, As the earth gives thanks in spring for the April sun I would and cannot yield you thanks for this. ALMACHILDES. I cannot thank at all. I cannot thank God. ALBOVINE. Art thou mazed with love? For her thou canst not Thank God? What feverish doubt of love or life Crazes or cramps thy spirit? ALMACHILDES. I cannot say. My heart, if any heart be left in me, Is as it was not thankless: yet, my king, I know not how to thank thee. ALBOVINE. Thank me not: I did not bid thee thank me. Love thy love, And God be with you: so may God be found Thankworthier. Keep some heart in thee awhile For God’s and her sake. ALMACHILDES. All I may I will. _Re-enter_ ROSAMUND, _followed by_ NARSETES _and Guests_. ALBOVINE. Sit, friends and warriors: thou, my boy, next me, And by my wife thy bride. This night, that leaves But two days more for June to burn and live, Plights with my queen’s troth mine in life and death This last one time for ever, in the cup Whence none shall drink hereafter. Not in scorn, Sirs, but in honour now the draught is pledged Between us, ere this relic stand enshrined And hallowed as a saint’s on the altar. Queen, I drink to thee.