Thy soul is softer than this boy’s of thine:
His heart is all toward battle. Was it mine
That put such fire in his? for none that heard
Thy flatteries—nay, I take not back the word—
A flattering lover lives my loving lord—
Could guess thine hand so great with spear or sword.
LOCRINE.
What have I done for thee to mock with praise
And make the boy’s eyes widen? All my days
Are worth not all a week, if war be all,
Of his that loved no bloodless festival—
Thy sire, and sire of slaughters: this was one
Who craved no more of comfort from the sun
But light to lighten him toward battle: I
Love no such life as bids men kill or die.
GUENDOLEN.
Wert thou not woman more in word than act,
Then unrevenged thy brother Albanact
Had given his blood to guard his realm and thine:
But he that slew him found thy stroke, Locrine,
Strong as thy speech is gentle.
LOCRINE.
God assoil
The dead our friends and foes!
GUENDOLEN.
A goodly spoil
Was that thine hand made then by Humber’s banks
Of all who swelled the Scythian’s riotous ranks
With storm of inland surf and surge of steel:
None there were left, if tongues ring true, to feel
The yoke of days that breathe submissive breath
More bitter than the bitterest edge of death.
LOCRINE.