MADAN.
What then?
What boots it though thy word, thine eye, thy cheek,
Seem all one fire together, if that fire
Sink, and thy face change, and thine heart wax weak,
To hear what deed should slake thy sore desire
And satiate thee with healing? This alone—
Except thine heart be softer toward my sire
Still than a maid’s who hears a wood-dove moan
And weeps for pity—this should comfort thee:
His death.
GUENDOLEN.
And sight of Madan on his throne?
MADAN.
What ailed thy wits, mother, to send for me?
GUENDOLEN.
Yet shalt thou not go back.
MADAN.
Why, what should I
Do here, where vengeance has not heart to be
And wrath dies out in weeping? Let it die—
And let me go.