Yet not like theirs--woe worth it!--were our loves.

LOCRINE.

No--for they meet and flit again apart.

GUENDOLEN.

And we live linked, inseparate--heart in heart.

LOCRINE.

Is this the grief that wrings and vexes thine?

GUENDOLEN.

Thy mother laughed when thou wast born, Locrine.

LOCRINE.

Did she not well? sweet laughter speaks not scorn.

GUENDOLEN.

And thou didst laugh, and wept'st not, to be born.

LOCRINE.

Did I then ill? didst thou, then, weep to be?