SCENE I. A chamber in the Royal Palace
Enter Locrine, Camber, Assarachus, Thrasimachus.
ASSARACHUS.
But tell me, cousin, died my brother so?
Now who is left to helpless Albion?
That as a pillar might uphold our state,
That might strike terror to our daring foes?
Now who is left to hapless Brittain,
That might defend her from the barbarous hands
Of those that still desire her ruinous fall,
And seek to work her downfall and decay?
CAMBER.
Aye, uncle, death is our common enemy,
And none but death can match our matchless power:
Witness the fall of Albioneus’ crew,
Witness the fall of Humber and his Huns.
And this foul death hath now increased our woe,
By taking Corineus from this life,
And in his room leaving us worlds of care.
THRASIMACHUS.
But none may more bewail his mournful hearse,
Than I that am the issue of his loins.
Now foul befall that cursed Humber’s throat,
That was the causer of his lingering wound.
LOCRINE.
Tears cannot raise him from the dead again.
But where’s my Lady, mistress Gwendoline?
THRASIMACHUS.
In Cornwall, Locrine, is my sister now,
Providing for my father’s funeral.
LOCRINE.
And let her there provide her mourning weeds
And mourn for ever her own widow-hood.
Ne’er shall she come within our palace gate,
To countercheck brave Locrine in his love.
Go, boy, to Devrolitum, down the Lee,
Unto the arch where lovely Estrild lies.
Bring her and Sabren straight unto the court;
She shall be queen in Gwendoline’s room.
Let others wail for Corineus’ death;
I mean not so to macerate my mind
For him that barred me from my heart’s desire.
THRASIMACHUS.
Hath Locrine, then, forsook his Gwendoline?
Is Corineus’ death so soon forgot?
If there be gods in heaven, as sure there be,
If there be fiends in hell, as needs there must,
They will revenge this thy notorious wrong,
And power their plagues upon thy cursed head.
LOCRINE.
What! prat’st thou, peasant, to thy sovereign?
Or art thou strooken in some extasy?
Doest thou not tremble at our royal looks?
Dost thou not quake, when mighty Locrine frowns?
Thou beardless boy, wer’t not that Locrine scorns
To vex his mind with such a heartless child,
With the sharp point of this my battle-axe,
I would send thy soul to Puriflegiton.