What wouldst thou?
GUENDOLEN.
Death. Would God my heart were great!
Then would I slay myself.
LOCRINE.
I dare not fear
That heaven hath marked for thee no fairer fate.
GUENDOLEN.
Ay! wilt thou slay me then—and slay me here?
LOCRINE.
Mock not thy wrath and me. No hair of thine
Would I—thou knowest it—hurt; nor vex thine ear
With answering wrath more vain than fumes of wine.
I have wronged and yet not wronged thee. Whence or when
Strange whispers rose that turned thy heart from mine
I would not know for shame’s sake, Guendolen,
And honour’s that I bear thee.
GUENDOLEN.