In Cornwall they that fell
So found it, that of all their large-limbed brood
No bulk is left to brave thee.
LOCRINE.
Yea, I know
Our son hath given the wolf our foes for food
And won him worthy praise from friend or foe;
And heartier praise and trustier thanks from none,
Boy, than thy father pays thee.
GUENDOLEN.
Wouldst thou show
Thy love, thy thanks, thy fatherhood in one,
Thy perfect honour—yea, thy right to stand
Crowned, and lift up thine eyes against the sun
As one so pure in heart, so clean of hand,
So loyal and so royal, none might cast
A word against thee burning like a brand,
A sound that withers honour, and makes fast
The bondage of a recreant soul to shame—
Thou shouldst, or ever an hour be overpast,
Slay him.
LOCRINE.
Thou art mad.
GUENDOLEN.
What, is not then thy name
Locrine? and hath this boy done ill to thee?
Hath he not won him for thy love’s sake fame?
Hath he not served thee loyally? is he
So much thy son, so little son of mine,
That men might call him traitor? May they see
The brand across his brow that reddens thine?
How shouldst thou dare—how dream—to let him live?
Is he not loyal? art not thou Locrine?
What less than death for guerdon shouldst thou give
My son who hath done thee service? Me thou hast given—
Who hast found me truer than falsehood can forgive—
Shame for my guerdon: yea, my heart is riven
With shame that once I loved thee.
LOCRINE.