Let them stay
The tides, the seasons rather. Love! Locrine!
I never parted from thee, nor shall part,
Save with a fire more keen than fire at heart:
But now the pang that wrings me, soul and sense,
And turns fair day to darkness deep as hell,
Warns me, the word that seals thy parting hence—
‘Farewell’—shall bid us never more fare well.
SABRINA.
Lo! she too bids thee tarry; dost thou not
Hear?
LOCRINE.
Might I choose, small need were hers, God wot,
Or thine, to bid me tarry. When I come
Again—
SABRINA.
Thou shalt not see me: I will hide
From sight of such a sire—or bow down dumb
Before him—strong and hard as he in pride—
And so thou shalt not hear me.
LOCRINE.
Who can tell?
So now say I.
ESTRILD.