How fares my queen?
GUENDOLEN.
Well. And this child of mine—
How he may fare concerns not thee to know?
LOCRINE.
Why, well I see my boy fares well.
GUENDOLEN.
Locrine,
Thou art welcome as the sun to fields of snow.
LOCRINE.
But hardly would they hail the sun whose face
Dissolves them deathward. Was thy meaning so?
GUENDOLEN.