How should scorn
Draw near thee, girt about with power for guard,
Power and good fame? unless reproach be born
Of these thy violent vanities of mood
That fight against thine honour.
GUENDOLEN.
Dost thou mourn
For that? Too careful art thou for my good,
Too tender and too true to me and mine,
For shame to make my heart or thine his food
Or scorn lay hold upon my fame or thine.
Art thou not pure as honour’s perfect heart—
Not treason-cankered like my lord Locrine,
Whose likeness shows thee fairer than thou art
And falser than thy loving care of me
Would bid my faith believe thee?
LOCRINE.
What strange part
Is this that changing passion plays in thee?
Know’st thou me not?
GUENDOLEN.
Yea—witness heaven and hell,
And all the lights that lighten earth and sea,
And all that wrings my heart, I know thee well.
How should I love and hate and know thee not?
LOCRINE.
Thy voice is as the sound of dead love’s knell.
GUENDOLEN.