Didst thou deem
I would outlive with thee the scorn of men,
A slave enthroned beside a traitor? Seem
These eyes and lips and hands of mine a slave’s
Uplift for mercy toward thee? Such a dream
Sets realms on fire, and turns their fields to graves.
LOCRINE.
No dream is mine that does thee less than right:
Albeit thy words be wild as warring waves,
I know thee higher of heart than shame could smite
And queenlier than thy queenship.
GUENDOLEN.
Dost the know
What day records to day and night to night—
How he whose wrath was rained as hail or snow
On Troy’s adulterous towers, when treacherous flame
Devoured them, and our fathers’ roofs lay low,
And all their praise was turned to fire and shame—
All-righteous God, who herds the stars of heaven
As sheep within his sheepfold—God, whose name
Compels the wandering clouds to service, given
As surely as even the sun’s is—loves or hates
Treason? He loved our sires: were they forgiven?
Their walls upreared of gods, their sevenfold gates,
Might these keep out his justice? What art thou
To make thy will more strong and sure than fate’s?
Thy fate am I, that falls upon thee now.
Wilt thou not slay me yet—and slay thy son?
So shall thy fate change, and unbend the brow
That now looks mortal on thee.
LOCRINE.
What is done
Lies now past help or pleading: nor would I
Plead with thee, knowing that love henceforth is none
Nor trust between us till the day we die.
Yet, if thy name be woman,—if thine heart
Be not burnt up with fire of hell, and lie
Not wounded even to death—albeit we part,
Let there not be between us war, but peace,
Though love may be not.
GUENDOLEN.
Peace? The man thou art
Craves—and shame bids not breath within him cease—
Craves of the woman that thou knowest I am
Peace? Ay, take hands at parting, and release
Each heart, each hand, each other: shall the lamb,
The lamb-like woman, born to cower and bleed,
Withstand his will whose choice may save or damn
Her days and nights, her word and thought and deed—
Take heart to outdare her lord the lion? How
Should this be—if the lion’s imperial seed
Life not against his sire as brave a brow
As frowns upon his mother?—Peace be then
Between us: none may stand before thee now:
No son of thine keep faith with Guendolen.
MADAN.