Art thou so thankful, king, for love’s kind sake?
Would I were worthier thanks like these I take!
For thanks I cannot render thee again.
LOCRINE.
Too heavy sits thy sorrow, Guendolen,
Upon thy spirit of life: I bid thee not
Take comfort while the fire of grief is hot
Still at thine heart, and scarce thy last keen tear
Dried: yet the gods have left thee comfort here.
GUENDOLEN.
Comfort? In thee, fair cousin—or my son?
LOCRINE.
What hast thou done, Madan, or left undone?
Toward thee and me thy mother’s mood to-day
Seems less than loving.
MADAN.
Sire, I cannot say.
LOCRINE.