meet and flit again apart.

GUENDOLEN.

And we live linked, inseparate—heart in heart.

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.

LOCRINE.

Yea, truly—when their bidding sealed me thine.

GUENDOLEN.

Thy smile is as a flame that plays and flits.

LOCRINE.

Yet at my heart thou knowest what fire there sits.

GUENDOLEN.

Not love’s—not love’s—toward me love burns not there.

LOCRINE.

What wouldst thou have me search therein and swear?

GUENDOLEN.

Swear by the faith none seeking there may find—

LOCRINE.

Then—by the faith that lives not in thy kind—

GUENDOLEN.

Ay—women’s faith is water.  Then, by men’s—

LOCRINE.

Yea—by Locrine’s, and not by Guendolen’s—

GUENDOLEN.

Swear thou didst never love me more than now.

LOCRINE.

I swear it—not when first we kissed.  And thou?

GUENDOLEN.

I cannot give thee back thine oath again.

LOCRINE.

If now love wane within thee, lived it then?

GUENDOLEN.

I said not that it waned.  I would not swear—

LOCRINE.

That it was ever more than shadows were?

GUENDOLEN.

—Thy faith and heart were aught but shadow and fire.

LOCRINE.

But thou, meseems, hast loved—thy son and sire.

GUENDOLEN.

And not my lord: I cross and thwart him still.

LOCRINE.

Thy grief it is that wounds me—not thy will.

GUENDOLEN.

Wound? if I would, could I forsooth wound thee?

LOCRINE.

I think thou wouldst not, though thine hands were free.

GUENDOLEN.

These hands, now bound in wedlock fast to thine?

LOCRINE.

Yet were thine heart not then dislinked from mine.

GUENDOLEN.

Nay, life nor death, nor love whose child is hate,
May sunder hearts made one but once by fate.
Wrath may come down as fire between them—life
May bid them yearn for death as man for wife—
Grief bid them stoop as son to father—shame
Brand them, and memory turn their pulse to flame—
Or falsehood change their blood to poisoned wine—
Yet all shall rend them not in twain, Locrine.

LOCRINE.

Who knows not this? but rather would I know
What thought distempers and distunes thy woe.
I came to wed my grief awhile to thine
For love’s sake and for comfort’s—

GUENDOLEN.

Thou, Locrine?
Today thou knowest not, nor wilt learn tomorrow,
The secret sense of such a word as sorrow.
Thy spirit is soft and sweet: I well believe
Thou wouldst, but well I know thou canst not grieve.
The tears like fire, the fire that burns up tears,
The blind wild woe that seals up eyes and ears,
The sound of raging silence in the brain
That utters things