O liar, is all the world a lie?
I bade thee, knowing thee what thou art—I bade
My lord and king and traitor slay my son—
A heartless hand that lacks the power it had
Smite one whose stroke shall leave it strengthless—one
Whose loyal loathing of his shame in thee
Shall cast it out of eyeshot of the sun.
LOCRINE.
Thou bad’st me slay him that he might—he, slay me?
GUENDOLEN.
Thou hast said—and yet thou hast lied not.
LOCRINE.
Hell’s own hate
Brought never forth such fruit as thine.
GUENDOLEN.
But he
Is the issue of thy love and mine, by fate
Made one to no good issue. Didst thou trust
That grief should give to men disconsolate
Comfort, and treason bring forth truth, and dust
Blossom? What love, what reverence, what regard,
Shouldst thou desire, if God or man be just,
Of this thy son, or me more evil-starred,
Whom scorn salutes his mother?
LOCRINE.