Enter on one side Locrine and his army: on the other
side Guendolen, Madan, and their army.
LOCRINE.
Stand fast, and sound a parley.
MADAN.
Halt: it seems
They would have rather speech than strokes of us.
LOCRINE.
This light of dawn is like an evil dream’s
That comes and goes and is not. Yea, and thus
Our hope on both sides wavering dares allow
No light but fire to bid us die or live.
—Son, and my wife that was, my rebels now,
That here we stand with death to take or give
I call the sun of heaven, God’s likeness wrought
On darkness, whence all spirits breathe and shine,
To witness, is no work of will or thought
Conceived or bred in brain or heart of mine.
Ye have levied wars against me, and compelled
My will unwilling and my power withheld
To strike the stroke I would not, when I might.
Will ye not yet take thought, and spare these men
Whom else the blind and burning fire of fight
Must feed upon for pasture? Guendolen,
Had I not left thee queen in Troynovant,
Though wife no more of mine, in all this land
No hand had risen, no eye had glared askant,
Against me: thine is each man’s heart and hand
That burns and strikes in all this battle raised
To serve and slake thy vengeance. With my son
I plead not, seeing his praise in arms dispraised
For ever, and his deeds of truth undone
By patricidal treason. But with thee
Peace would I have, if peace again may be
Between us. Blood by wrath unnatural shed
Or spent in civic battle burns the land
Whereon it falls like fire, and brands as red
The conqueror’s forehead as the warrior’s hand.
I pray thee, spare this people: reign in peace
With separate honours in a several state:
As love that was hath ceased, let hatred cease:
Let not our personal cause be made the fate
That damns to death men innocent, and turns
The joy of life to darkness. Thine alone
Is all this war: to slake the flame that burns
Thus high should crown thee royal, and enthrone
Thy praise in all men’s memories. If thou wilt,
Peace let there be: if not, be thine the guilt.
GUENDOLEN.
Mine? Hear it, heaven,—and men, bear witness! Mine
The treachery that hath rent our realm in twain—
Mine, mine the adulterous treason. Not Locrine,
Not he, found loyal to my love in vain,
Hath brought the civic sword and fire of strife
On British fields and homesteads, clothed with joy,
Crowned with content and comfort: I, his wife,
Have brought on Troynovant the fires of Troy.
He lifts his head before the sun of heaven
And swears it—lies, and lives. Is God’s bright sword
Broken, wherewith the gates of Troy—the seven
Strong gates that gods who built them held in ward—
Were broken even as wattled reeds with fire?
Son, by what name shall honour call thy sire?
MADAN.