MADAN.
I know not what should make thee mad
Though this and worse, howbeit it irk thee, were.
Art thou discrowned, dethroned, disrobed, unclad
Of empire? art thou powerless, bloodless, old?
This were some hurt: but now—thou shouldst be glad
To take this chance upon thee, and to hold
So large a lordly happiness in hand
As when my father’s and thy lord’s is cold
Shall leave in thine the sway of all this land.
GUENDOLEN.
And thou? no she-wolf whelps upon the wold
Whose brood is like thy mother’s.
MADAN.
Nay—I stand
A man thy son before thee.
GUENDOLEN.
And a bold
Man: is thine heart flesh, or a burning brand
Lit to burn up and turn for thee to gold
The kingship of thy sire?
MADAN.
Why, blessed or banned,
We thrive alike—thou knowest it—why, but now
I said so,—scarce the glass has dropped one sand—
And thou didst smile on me—and all thy brow
Smiled.