Thy sire it was that bade our hands be one
For love of mine, his brother: thou, his son,
Didst give not--no--but yield thy hand to mine,
To mine thy lips--not thee to me, Locrine.
Thy heart has dwelt far off me all these years;
Yet have I never sought with smiles or tears
To lure or melt it meward. I have borne -
I that have borne to thee this boy--thy scorn,
Thy gentleness, thy tender words that bite
More deep than shame would, shouldst thou spurn or smite
These limbs and lips made thine by contract--made
No wife's, no queen's--a servant's--nay, thy shade.
The shadow am I, my lord and king, of thee,
Who art spirit and substance, body and soul to me.
And now,--nay, speak not--now my sire is dead
Thou think'st to cast me crownless from thy bed
Wherein I brought thee forth a son that now
Shall perish with me, if thou wilt--and thou
Shalt live and laugh to think of us--or yet
Play faith more foul--play falser, and forget.

LOCRINE.

Sharp grief has crazed thy brain. Thou knowest of me -

GUENDOLEN.

I know that nought I know, Locrine, of thee.

LOCRINE.