Children—who can but pray—
Pray better, if my sense not err, than we.
The God whom all the gods of heaven obey
Should hear them rather, seeing—as gods may see—
How pure of purpose is their perfect prayer.
LOCRINE.
I think not else—the better then for me.
But ours—what manner of child is this? the hair
Buds flowerwise round his darkening lips and chin,
This hand’s young hardening palm knows how to bear
The sword-hilt’s poise that late I laid therein—
Ha? doth not it?
GUENDOLEN.
Thine enemies know that well.
MADAN.
I make no boast of battles that have been;
But, so God help me, days unborn shall tell
What manner of heart my father gave me.
LOCRINE.
Good.
I doubt thee not.
GUENDOLEN.