As that whose hours rang round thy praises then,
Shall thy son's hand be deeper dipped therein
Than his that gat him--and that held it sin
To spill strange blood of barbarous women--wives
Or harlots--things of monstrous names and lives -
Fit spoil for swords of harsher-hearted folk;
Nor yet, though some that dared and 'scaped the stroke
Be fair as beasts are beauteous,--fit to make
False hearts of fools bow down for love's foul sake,
And burn up faith to ashes--shall my son
Forsake his father's ways for such an one
As whom thy soldiers slew or slew not--thou
Hast no remembrance of them left thee now.
Even therefore may we stand assured of this:
What lip soever lure his lip to kiss,
Past question--else were he nor mine nor thine -
This boy would spurn a Scythian concubine.

LOCRINE.

Such peril scarce may cross or charm our son,
Though fairer women earth or heaven sees none
Than those whose breath makes mild our wild south-west
Where now he fares not forth on amorous quest.

GUENDOLEN.

Wilt thou not bless him going, and bid him speed?

LOCRINE.