GUENDOLEN.
As now
We know not if they be. Give me thine hand.
Thou hast mine eyes beneath thy father’s brow,—
And therefore bears it not the traitor’s brand.
Swear—But I would not bid thee swear in vain
Nor bind thee ere thine own soul understand,
Ere thine own heart be molten with my pain,
To do such work for bitter love of me
As haply, knowing my heart, thou wert not fain—
Even thou—to take upon thee—bind on thee—
Set all thy soul to do or die.
MADAN.
I swear.
GUENDOLEN.
And though thou sworest not, yet the thing should be.
The burden found for me so sore to bear
Why should I lay on any hand but mine,
Or bid thine own take part therein, and wear
A father’s blood upon it—here—for sign?
Ay, now thou pluck’st it forth of hers to whom
Thou sworest and gavest it plighted. O Locrine,
Thy seed it was that sprang within my womb,
Thine, and none other—traitor born and liar,
False-faced, false-tongued—the fire of hell consume
Me, thee, and him for ever!
MADAN.
Hath my sire
Wronged thee?
GUENDOLEN.
Thy sire? my lord? the flower of men?
How?