ESTRILD.
Ay,—would I see but with thine eyes.
LOCRINE.
Estrild,
Estrild!
ESTRILD.
No soft reiterance of my name
Can sing my sorrow down that comes and goes
And colours hope with fear and love with shame.
Rose hast thou called me: were I like the rose,
Happier were I than woman: she survives
Not by one hour, like us of longer lives,
The sun she lives in and the love he gives
And takes away: but we, when love grows sere,
Live yet, while trust in love no longer lives,
Nor drink for comfort with the dying year
Death.
LOCRINE.
Wouldst thou drink forgetfulness for wine
To heal thine heart of love toward me?
ESTRILD.
Locrine,
Locrine!