Long since my heart has tolled it—and forgot
All save the cause that bade the death-bell sound
And cease and bring forth silence.
LOCRINE.
Is thy lot
Less fair and royal, girt with power and crowned,—
Than might fulfil the loftiest heart’s desire?
GUENDOLEN.
Not air but fire it is that rings me round—
Thy voice makes all my brain a wheel of fire.
Man, what have I to do with pride of power?
Such pride perchance it was that moved my sire
To bid me wed—woe worth the woful hour!—
His brother’s son, the brother’s born above
Him as above me thou, the crown and flower
Of Britain, gentler-hearted than the dove
And mightier than the sunward eagle’s wing:
But nought moved me save one thing only—love.
LOCRINE.
I know it.
GUENDOLEN.
Thou knowest? but this thou knowest not, king,
How near of kin are bitter love and hate—
Nor which of these may be the deadlier thing.
LOCRINE.