Wouldst thou too see fulfilled
The fear whose shadow fallen on joy’s fair face
Strikes it more sad than sorrow’s own? Estrild,
Wast thou then happier ere this wildwood shrine
Hid thee from homage, left thee but Locrine
For worshipper less worthy grace of thee
Than those thy sometime suppliants?
ESTRILD.
Nay; my lord
Takes too much thought—if tongues ring true—for me.
LOCRINE.
Such tongues ring falser than a broken chord
Whose jar distunes the music.
ESTRILD.
Wilt thou stay
But three nights here?
LOCRINE.
I had need be hence today.
ESTRILD.