SABRINA.
Thou wast not born in Britain?
ESTRILD.
Woe is me,
No: happier hap had mine perchance been then.
SABRINA.
And was not I? Are these all stranger men?
ESTRILD.
Ay, wast thou, child—a Briton born: God give
Thy name the grace on British tongues to live!
SABRINA.
Is that so good a gift of God’s—to die
And leave a name alive in memory? I
Would rather live this river’s life, and be
Held of no less or more account than he.
Lo, how he lives and laughs! and hath no name,
Thou sayest—or one forgotten even of fame
That lives on poor men’s lips and falters down
To nothing. But thy father? and his crown?
Did he less hate the coil of it than mine,
Or love thee less—nay, then he were not thine—
Than he, my sire, loves me?