The tears like fire, the fire that burns up tears,
The blind wild woe that seals up eyes and ears,
The sound of raging silence in the brain
That utters things unutterable for pain,
The thirst at heart that cries on death for ease,
What knows thy soul's live sense of pangs like these?

LOCRINE.

Is no love left thee then for comfort?

GUENDOLEN.

Thine?

LOCRINE.

Thy son's may serve thee, though thou mock at mine.

GUENDOLEN.

Ay--when he comes again from Cornwall.

LOCRINE.

Nay;
If now his absence irk thee, bid him stay.

GUENDOLEN. -