Locrine: A Tragedy

Scene I.—The banks of the Ley.

Enter Estrild and Sabrina.

SABRINA.

But will my father come not? not today,
Mother?

ESTRILD.

God help thee! child, I cannot say.
Why this of all days yet in summer’s sight?

SABRINA.

My birthday!

ESTRILD.

That should bring him—if it may.

SABRINA.

May should be must: he must not be away.
His faith was pledged to me as king and knight.

ESTRILD.

Small fear he should not keep it—if he might.

SABRINA.

Might! and a king’s might his? do kings bear sway
For nought, that aught should keep him hence till night?
Why didst thou bid God help me when I sought
To know but of his coming?

ESTRILD.

Even for nought
But laughter even to think how strait a bound
Shuts in the measure of thy sight and thought
Who seest not why thy sire hath heed of aught
Save thee and me—nor wherefore men stand crowned
And girt about with empire.

SABRINA.

Have they found
Such joy therein as meaner things have wrought?
Sing me the song that ripples round and round.

Estrild (sings):—

Had I wist, quoth spring to the swallow,
That earth could forget me, kissed
By summer, and lured to follow
Down ways that I know not, I,
My heart should have waxed not high:
Mid March would have seen me die,
Had I wist.

Had I wist, O spring, said the swallow,
That hope was a sunlit mist
And the faint light heart of it hollow,
Thy woods had not heard me sing,
Thy winds had not known my wing;
It had faltered ere thine did, spring,
Had I wist.

SABRINA.

That song is hardly even as wise as I—
Nay, very foolishness it is.  To die
In March before its life were well on wing,
Before its time and kindly season—why
Should spring be sad—before the swallows fly—
Enough to dream of such a wintry thing?
Such foolish words were more unmeet for spring
Than snow for summer when his heart is high;
And why should words be foolish when they sing?
The song-birds are not.

ESTRILD.

Dost thou understand,
Child, what the birds are singing?

SABRINA.

All the land
Knows that: the water tells it to the rushes
Aloud, and lower and softlier to the sand:
The flower-fays, lip to lip and hand in hand,
Laugh and repeat it all till darkness hushes
Their singing with a word that falls and crushes
All song to silence down the river-strand
And where the hawthorns hearken for the thrushes.
And all the secret sense is sweet and wise
That sings through all their singing, and replies
When we would know if heaven be gay or grey
And would not open all too soon our eyes
To look perchance on no such happy skies—
As sleep brings close and waking blows away.

ESTRILD.

What gives thy fancy faith enough to say
This?

SABRINA.

Why, meseems the sun would hardly rise
Else, nor the world be half so glad of day.

ESTRILD.

Why didst thou crave of me that song, Sabrina?

SABRINA.

Because, methought, though one were king or queen
And had the world to play with, if one missed
What most were good to have, such joy, I ween,
Were woful as a song with sobs between
And well might wail for ever, ‘Had I wist!’
And might my father do but as he list,
And make this day what other days have been,
I should not shut tonight mine eyes unkissed.

ESTRILD.

I wis thou wouldst not.

SABRINA.

Then I would he were
No king at all, and save his golden hair
Wore on his gracious head no golden crown.
Must he be king for ever?

ESTRILD.

Not if prayer
Could lift from off his heart that crown of care
And draw him toward us as with music down.

SABRINA.

Not so, but upward to us.  He would but frown
To hear thee talk as though the woodlands there
Were built no lordlier than the wide-walled town.
Thou knowest, when I desire of him to see
What manner of crown that wreath of towers may be
That makes its proud head shine like older Troy’s,
His brows are bent even while he laughs on me
And bids me think no more thereon than he,
For flowers are serious things, but towers are toys.

ESTRILD.

Ay, child; his heart was less care’s throne than joy’s,
Power’s less than love’s friend ever: and with thee
His mood that plays is blither than a boy’s.

SABRINA.

I would the boy would give the maid her will.

ESTRILD.

Has not thine heart as mine has here its fill?

SABRINA.

So have our hearts while sleeping—till they wake.

ESTRILD.

Too soon is this for waking: sleep thou still.

SABRINA.

Bid then the dawn sleep, and the world lie chill.

ESTRILD.

This nest is warm for one small wood-dove’s sake.

SABRINA.

And warm the world that feels the sundawn break.

ESTRILD.

But hath my fledgeling cushat here slept ill?

SABRINA.

No plaint is this, but pleading, that I make.

ESTRILD.

Plead not against thine own glad life: the plea
Were like a wrangling babe’s that fain would be
Free from the help its hardy heart contemns,
Free from the hand that guides and guards it, free
To take its way and sprawl and stumble.  See!
Have we not here enough of diadems
Hung high round portals pillared smooth with stems
More fair than marble?

SABRINA.

This is but the Ley:
I fain would look upon the lordlier Thames.

ESTRILD.

A very water-bird thou art: the river
So draws thee to it that, seeing, my heart-strings quiver
And yearn with fear lest peril teach thee fear
Too late for help or daring to deliver.

SABRINA.

Nay, let the wind make willows weep and shiver:
Me shall nor wind nor water, while I hear
What goodly words saith each in other’s ear.
And which is given the gift, and which the giver,
I know not, but they take and give good cheer.

ESTRILD.

Howe’er this be, thou hast no heed of mine,
To take so little of this life of thine
I gave and would not see thee cast away
For childishness in childhood, though it shine
For me sole comfort, for my lord Locrine
Chief comfort in the world.

SABRINA.

Nay, mother, nay,
Make me not weep with chiding: wilt thou say
I love thee not?  Hark! see, my sire for sign!
I hear his horse.

ESTRILD.

He comes!

SABRINA.

He comes today!

[Exeunt.

Scene II.—Troynovant.  A Room in the Palace.

Enter Guendolen and Camber.

GUENDOLEN.

I know not, sir, what ails you to desire
Such audience of me as I give.

CAMBER.

What ails
Me, sister?  Were the heart in me no higher
Than his who heeds no more than harpers’ tales
Such griefs as set a sister’s heart on fire—

GUENDOLEN.

Then were my brother now at rest in Wales,
And royal.

CAMBER.

Am I less than royal here?

GUENDOLEN.

Even here as there alike, sir.

CAMBER.

Dost thou fear
Nothing?

GUENDOLEN.

My princely cousin, not indeed
Much that might hap at word or will of thine.

CAMBER.

Ay—meanest am I of my father’s seed,
If men misjudge not, cousin; and Locrine
Noblest.

GUENDOLEN.

Should I gainsay their general rede,
My heart would mock me.

CAMBER.

Such a spirit as mine
Being spiritless—my words heartless—mine acts
Faint shadows of Locrine’s or Albanact’s?

GUENDOLEN.

Nay—not so much—I said not so.  Say thou
What thou wouldst have—if aught thou wouldst—with me.

CAMBER.

No man might see thine eyes and lips and brow
Who would not—what he durst not crave of thee.

GUENDOLEN.

Ay, verily?  And thy spirit exalts thee now
So high that these thy words fly forth so free,
And fain thine act would follow—flying above
Shame’s reach and fear’s?  What gift may this be?  Love?
Or liking? or compassion?

CAMBER.

Take not thus
Mine innocent words amiss, nor wrest awry
Their piteous purpose toward thee.

GUENDOLEN.

Piteous!
Who lives so low and looks upon the sky
As would desire—who shares the sun with us
That might deserve thy pity?

CAMBER.

Thou.

GUENDOLEN.

Not I,
Though I were cast out hence, cast off, discrowned,
Abject, ungirt of all that guards me round,
Naked.  What villainous madness, knave and king,
Is this that puts upon thy babbling tongue
Poison?

CAMBER.

The truth is as a snake to sting
That breathes ill news: but where its fang hath stung
The very pang bids health and healing spring.
God knows the grief wherewith my spirit is wrung—
The spirit of thee so scorned, so misesteemed,
So mocked with strange misprision and misdeemed
Merciless, false, unbrotherly—to take
Such task upon it as may burn thine heart
With bitterer hatred of me that I spake
What, had I held my peace and crept apart
And tamed my soul to silence for thy sake
And mercy toward the royal thing thou art,
Chance haply might have made a fiery sword
To slay thee with—slay thee, and spare thy lord.

GUENDOLEN.

Worse had it done to slay my lord, and spare
Me.  Wilt thou now show mercy toward me?  Then
Strike with that sword mine heart through—if thou dare.
All know thy tongue’s edge deadly.

CAMBER.

Guendolen,
Thou seest me like a vassal bound to bear
All bitter words that bite the hearts of men
From thee, so be it this please thy wrath.  I stand
Slave of thy tongue and subject of thine hand,
And pity thee.  Take, if thou wilt, my head;
Give it my brother.  Thou shalt hear me speak
First, though the soothfast word that hangs unsaid
As yet, being spoken,—albeit this hand be weak
And faint this heart, thou sayest—should strike thee dead
Even with that rose of wrath on brow and cheek.

GUENDOLEN.

I hold not thee too faint of heart to slay
Women.  Say forth whate’er thou hast heart to say.

CAMBER.

Silence I have not heart to keep, and see
Scorn and derision gird thee round with shame,
Not knowing what all thy serfs who mock at thee
Know, and make mirth and havoc of thy name.
Does this not move thee?

GUENDOLEN.

How should aught move me
Fallen from such tongues as falsehood finds the same—
Such tongues as fraud or treasonous hate o’erscurfs
With leprous lust—a prince’s or a serf’s?

CAMBER.

That lust of the evil-speaking tongue which gives
Quick breath to deadly lies, and stings to life
The rottenness of falsehood, when it lives,
Falls dumb, and leaves the lie to bring forth strife.
The liar will say no more—his heart misgives
His knaveship—should he sunder man and wife?
Such, sister, in thy sight, it seems, am I.
Yet shalt thou take, to keep or cast it by,
The truth of shame I would not have thee hear,—
Not might I choose,—but choose I may not.

GUENDOLEN.

Shame
And truth?  Shame never toward thine heart came near,
And all thy life hath hung about thy name.
Nor ever truth drew nigh the lips that fear
Whitens, and makes the blood that feeds them tame.
Speak all thou wilt—but even for shame, forsooth,
Talk not of shame—and tell me not of truth.

CAMBER.

Then shalt thou hear a lie.  Thy loving lord
Loves none save thee; his heart’s pulse beats in thine;
No fairer woman, captive of his sword,
Caught ever captive and subdued Locrine:
The god of lies bear witness.  At the ford
Of Humber blood was never shed like wine:
Our brother Albanact lived, fought, and died,
Never: and I that swear it have not lied.

GUENDOLEN.

Fairer?

CAMBER.

They say it: but what are lies to thee?

GUENDOLEN.

Art thou nor man nor woman?

CAMBER.

Nay—I trust—
Man.

GUENDOLEN.

And hast heart to make thy spoil of me?

CAMBER.

Would God I might!

GUENDOLEN.

Thou art made of lies and lust—
Earth’s worst is all too good for such to see,
And yet thine eyes turn heavenward—as they must,
Being man’s—if man be such as thou—and soil
The light they see.  Thou hast made of me thy spoil,
Thy scorn, thy profit—yea, my whole soul’s plunder
Is all thy trophy, thy triumphal prize
And harvest reaped of thee; nay, trampled under
And rooted up and scattered.  Yet the skies
That see thy trophies reared are full of thunder,
And heaven’s high justice loves not lust and lies.

CAMBER.

Ill then should fare thy lord—if heaven be just,
And lies be lies, and lawless love be lust.

GUENDOLEN.

Thou liest.  I know my lord and thee.  Thou liest.

CAMBER.

If he be true and truth be false, I lie.

GUENDOLEN.

Thou art lowest of all men born—while he sits highest.

CAMBER.

Ay—while he sits.  How long shall he sit high?

GUENDOLEN.

If I but whisper him of thee, thou diest.

CAMBER.

I fear not, if till then secure am I.

GUENDOLEN.

Secure as fools are hardy live thou still.

CAMBER.

While ill with good is guerdoned, good with ill.

GUENDOLEN.

I have it in my mind to take thine head.
Dost thou not fear to put me thus in fear?

CAMBER.

I fear nor man nor woman, quick nor dead:
And dead in spirit already stand’st thou here.

GUENDOLEN.

Thou darest not swear my lord hath wronged my bed.
Thou darest but smile and mutter, lie and leer.

CAMBER.

I swear no queen bore ever crown on brow
Who meeklier bore a heavier wrong than thou.

GUENDOLEN.

From thee will I bear nothing.  Get thee hence:
Thine eyes defile me.  Get thee from my sight.

CAMBER.

The gods defend thee, soul and spirit and sense,
From sense of things thou darest not read aright!
Farewell.

[Exit.

GUENDOLEN.

Fare thou not well, and be defence
Far from thy soul cast naked forth by night!
Hate rose from hell a liar: love came divine
From heaven: yet she that bore thee bore Locrine.

[Exit.

Scene I.—Troynovant.  A Room in the Palace.

Enter Locrine and Debon.

LOCRINE.

Thou knowest not what she knows or dreams of? why
Her face is dark and wan, her lip and eye
Restless and red as fever?  Hast thou kept
Faith?

DEBON.

Has my master found my faith a lie
Once all these years through? have I strayed or slept
Once, when he bade me watch? what proof has leapt
At last to light against me?

LOCRINE.

Surely, none.
Weep not.

DEBON.

My lord’s grey vassal hath not wept
Once, even since darkness covered from the sun
The woman’s face—the sole sweet wifelike one—
Whose memory holds his heart yet fast: but now
Tears, were old age not poor in tears, might run
Free as the words that bid his stricken brow
Burn and bow down to hear them.

LOCRINE.

Hast not thou
Held counsel—played the talebearer whose tales
Bear plague abroad and poison, knowing not how—
Not with my wife nor brother?

DEBON.

Nought avails
Falsehood: and truth it is, the king of Wales
So plied me, sir, with force of craft and threat—

LOCRINE.

That thou, whose faith swerves never, flags nor fails
Nor falters, being as stars are loyal, yet
Wast found as those that fall from heaven, forget
Their station, shoot and shudder down to death
Deep as the pit of hell?  What snares were set
To take thy soul—what mist of treasonous breath
Made blind in thee the sense that quickeneth
In true men’s inward eyesight, when they know
And know not how they know the word it saith,
The warning word that whispers loud or low—
I ask not: be it enough these things are so.
Thou hast played me false.

DEBON.

Nay, now this long time since
We have seen the queen’s face wan with wrath and woe—
Have seen her lip writhe and her eyelid wince
To take men’s homage—proof that might convince
Of grief inexpiable and insatiate shame
Her spirit in all men’s judgment.

LOCRINE.

But the prince—
My brother, whom thou knowest by proof, not fame,
A coward whose heart is all a flickering flame
That fain would burn and dares not—whence had he
The poison that he gave her?  Speak: this came
By chance—mishap—most haplessly for thee
Who hadst my heart in thine, and madest of me
No more than might for folly’s sake or fear’s
Be bared for even such eyes as his to see?
Old friend that wast, I would not see thy tears.
God comfort thy dishonour!

DEBON.

All these years
Have I not served thee?

LOCRINE.

Yea.  So cheer thee now.

DEBON.

Cheered be the traitor, whom the true man cheers?
Nay, smite me: God can be not such as thou,
And will not damn me with forgiveness.  How
Hast thou such heart, to comfort such as me?
God’s thunder were less fearful than the brow
That frowns not on thy friend found false to thee.
Thy friend—thou said’st—thy friend.  Strange friends are we.
Nay, slay me then—nay, slay me rather.

LOCRINE.

Friend,
Take comfort.  God’s wide-reaching will shall be
Here as of old accomplished, though it blend
All good with ill that none may mar or mend.
Thy works and mine are ripples on the sea.
Take heart, I say: we know not yet their end.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.—Gardens of the Palace.

Enter Camber and Madan.

CAMBER.

Hath no man seen thee?

MADAN.

Had he seen, and spoken,
His head should lose its tongue.  I am far away
In Cornwall.

CAMBER.

Where the front of war is broken
By the onset of thy force—the rebel fray
Shattered.  Had no man—canst thou surely say?—
Knowledge betimes, to give us knowledge here—
Us babblers, tongues made quick with fraud and fear—
That thou wast bound from Cornwall hither?

MADAN.

None,
I think, who knowing of steel and fire and cord
That they can smite and burn and strangle one
Would loose without leave of his parting lord
The tongue that else were sharper than a sword
To cut the throat it sprang from.

CAMBER.

Nephew mine,
I have ever loved thee—not thy sire Locrine
More—and for very and only love of thee
Have I desired, or ever even thy mother
Beheld thee, here to know of thee and me
Which loves her best—her and thy sire my brother.

MADAN.

He being away, far hence—and so none other—
Not he—should share the knowledge?

CAMBER.

Surely not
He.  Knowest thou whither hence he went?

MADAN.

God wot,
No: haply toward some hidden paramour.

CAMBER.

And that should set not, for thy mother’s sake,
And thine, the heart in thee on fire?

MADAN.

An hour
Is less than even the time wherein we take
Breath to let loose the word that fain would break,
And cannot, even for passion,—if we set
An hour against the length of life: and yet
Less in account of life should be those hours—
Should be? should be not, live not, be not known,
Not thought of, not remembered even as ours,—
Whereon the flesh or fancy bears alone
Rule that the soul repudiates for its own,
Rejects and mocks and mourns for, and reclaims
Its nature, none the ignobler for the shames
That were but shadows on it—shed but shade
And perished.  If thy brother and king, my sire—

CAMBER.

No king of mine is he—we are equal, weighed
Aright in state, though here his throne stand higher.

MADAN.

So be it.  I say, if even some earth-born fire
Have ever lured the loftiest head that earth
Sees royal, toward a charm of baser birth
And force less godlike than the sacred spell
That links with him my mother, what were this
To her or me?

CAMBER.

To her no more than hell
To souls cast forth who hear all hell-fire hiss
All round them, and who feel the red worm’s kiss
Shoot mortal poison through the heart that rests
Immortal: serpents suckled at her breasts,
Fire feeding on her limbs, less pain should be
Than sense of pride laid waste and love laid low,
If she be queen or woman: and to thee—

MADAN.

To me that wax not woman though I know
This, what shall hap or hap not?

CAMBER.

Were it so,
It should not irk thee, she being wronged alone;
Thy mother’s bed, and not thy father’s throne,
Being soiled with usurpation.  Ay? but say
That now mine uncle and her sire lies dead
And helpless now to help her, or affray
The heart wherein her ruin and thine were bred,
Not she were cast forth only from his bed,
But thou, loathed issue of a contract loathed
Since first their hands were joined not but betrothed,
Wert cast forth out of kingship? stripped of state,
Unmade his son, unseated, unallowed,
Discrowned, disorbed, discrested—thou, but late
Prince, and of all men’s throats acclaimed aloud,
Of all men’s hearts accepted and avowed
Prince, now proclaimed for some sweet bastard’s sake
Peasant?

MADAN.

Thy sire was sure less man than snake,
Though mine miscall thee brother.

CAMBER.

Coward or mad?
Which might one call thee rather, whose harsh heart
Envenoms so thy tongue toward one that had
No thought less kindly—toward even thee that art
Kindless—than best beseems a kinsman’s part?

MADAN.

Lay not on me thine own foul shame, whose tongue
Would turn my blood to poison, while it stung
Thy brother’s fame to death.  I know my sire
As shame knows thee—and better no man knows
Aught.

CAMBER.

Have thy will, then: take thy full desire:
Drink dry the draught of ruin: bid all blows
Welcome: being harsh with friends, be mild with foes,
And give shame thanks for buffets.  Yet I thought—
But how should help avail where heart is nought?

MADAN.

Yet—thou didst think to help me?

CAMBER.

Kinsman, ay.
My hand had held the field beside thine own,
And all wild hills that know my rallying cry
Had poured forth war for heart’s pure love alone
To help thee—wouldst thou heed me—to thy throne.

MADAN.

For pure heart’s love? what wage holds love in fee?
Might half my kingdom serve?  Nay, mock not me,
Fair uncle: should I cleave the crown in twain
And gird thy temples with the goodlier half,
Think’st thou my debt might so be paid again—
Thy sceptre made a more imperial staff
Than sways as now thy hill-folk?

CAMBER.

Dost thou laugh?
Were this too much for kings to give and take?
If warrior Wales do battle for thy sake,
Should I that kept thy crown for thee be held
Worth less than royal guerdon?

MADAN.

Keep thine own,
And let the loud fierce knaves thy brethren quelled
Ward off the wolves whose hides should line thy throne,
Wert thou no coward, no recreant to the bone,
No liar in spirit and soul and heartless heart,
No slave, no traitor—nought of all thou art.
A thing like thee, made big with braggart breath,
Whose tongue shoots fire, whose promise poisons trust,
Would cast a shieldless soldier forth to death
And wreck three realms to sate his rancorous lust
With ruin of them who have weighed and found him dust.
Get thee to Wales: there strut in speech and swell:
And thence betimes God speed thee safe to hell.

[Exeunt severally.

ACT IV.

Scene I.—The banks of the Ley.

Enter Locrine and Estrild.

LOCRINE.

If thou didst ever love me, love me now.
I am weary at heart of all on earth save thee.
And yet I lie: and yet I lie not.  Thou—
Dost thou not think for love’s sake scorn of me?

ESTRILD.

As earth of heaven: as morning of the sun.

LOCRINE.

Nay, what thinks evening, whom he leaves undone?

ESTRILD.

Thou madest me queen and woman: though my life
Were taken, these thou couldst not take again,
The gifts thou gavest me.  More am I than wife,
Whom, till my tyrant by thy strength were slain
And by thy love my servile shame cast out,
My naked sorrows clothed and girt about
With princelier pride than binds the brows of queens,
Thou sawest of all things least and lowest alive.
What means thy doubt?

LOCRINE.

Fear knows not what it means:
And I was fearful even of clouds that drive
Across the dawn, and die—of all, of nought—
Winds whispering on the darkling ways of thought,
Sunbeams that flash like fire, and hopes like fears
That slay themselves, and live again, and die.
But in mine eyes thy light is, in mine ears
Thy music: I am thine, and more than I,
Being half of thy sweet soul.

ESTRILD.

Woe worth me then!
For one requires thee wholly.

LOCRINE.

Guendolen?

ESTRILD.

I said she was the fairer—and I lied not.

LOCRINE.

Thou art the fairest fool alive.

ESTRILD.

But she,
Being wise, exceeds me: yet, so she divide not
Thine heart, my best-beloved of liars, with me,
I care not—nor I will not care.  Some part
She hath had, it may be, of thy fond false heart—
Nay, couldst thou choose? but now, though she be fairer,
Let her take all or none: I will not be
Partaker of her perfect sway, nor sharer
With any on earth more dear or less to thee.
Nay, be not wroth: what wilt thou have me say?
That I can love thee less than she can?  Nay,
Thou knowest I will not ill to her; but she—
Would she not burn my child and me with fire
To wreak herself, who loved thee once, on thee?

LOCRINE.

Thy fear is darker, child, than her desire.

ESTRILD.

I fear not her at all: I would not fear
The one thing fearful to me yet, who here
Sit walled around with waters and with woods
From all things fearful but the fear of change.

LOCRINE.

Fear thou not that: for nothing born eludes
Time; and the joy were sorrowful and strange
That should endure for ever.  Yea, I think
Such joy would pray for sorrow’s cup to drink,
Such constancy desire an end, for mere
Long weariness of watching.  Thou and I
Have all our will of life and loving here,—
A heavenlier heaven on earth: but we shall die,
And if we died not, love we might outlive
As now shall love outlive us.

ESTRILD.

We?

LOCRINE.

Forgive!

ESTRILD.

King! and I held thee more than man!

LOCRINE.

God wot,
Thou art more than I—more strong and wise;
I know
Thou couldst not live one hour if love were not.

ESTRILD.

And thou?—

LOCRINE.

I would not.  All the world were woe,
And all the day night, if the love I bear thee
Were plucked out of the life wherein I wear thee
As crown and comfort of its nights and days.

ESTRILD.

Thou liest—for love’s sake and for mine—and I
Lie not, who swear by thee whereon I gaze
I hold no truth so hallowed as the lie
Wherewith my love redeems me from the snare
Dark doubt had set to take me.

LOCRINE.

Wilt thou swear
—By what thou wilt soever—by the sun
That sees us—by the light of all these flowers—
By this full stream whose waves we hear not run—
By all that is nor mine nor thine, but ours—
That thou didst ever doubt indeed? or dream
That doubt, whose breath bids love of love misdeem,
Were other than the child of hate and hell,
The liar first-born of falsehood?

ESTRILD.

Nay—I think—
God help me!—hardly.  Never? can I tell?
When half our soul and all our senses sink
From dream to dream down deathward, slain with sleep,
How may faith hold assurance fast, or keep
Her power to cast out fear for love’s sake?

LOCRINE.

Could doubt not thee, waking or sleeping.

ESTRILD.

No—
Thou art not mad.  How should the sunlit sky
Betray the sun? cast out the sunshine?  So
Art thou to me as light to heaven: should light
Die, were not heaven as hell and noon as night?
And wherefore should I hold more dear than life
Death?  Could I live, and lack thee?  Thou, O king,
Hast lands and lordships—and a royal wife—
And rule of seas that tire the seamew’s wing—
And fame as far as fame can travel; I,
What have I save this home wherein to die,
Except thou love me?  Nay, nor home were this,
No place to die or live in, were I sure
Thou didst not love me.  Swear not by this kiss
That love lives longer—faith may more endure—
Than one poor kiss that passes with the breath
Of lips that gave it life at once and death.
Why shouldst thou swear, and wherefore should I trust?
When day shall drive not night from heaven, and night
Shall chase not day to deathward, then shall dust
Be constant—and the stars endure the sight
Of dawn that shall not slay them.

LOCRINE.

By thine eyes
—Turned stormier now than stars in bare-blown skies
Wherethrough the wind rings menace,—I will swear
Nought: so shall fear, mistrust, and jealous hate
Lie foodless, if not fangless.  Thou, so fair
That heaven might change for thee the seal of fate,
How darest thou doubt thy power on souls of men?

ESTRILD.

What vows were those that won thee Guendolen?

LOCRINE.

I sware not so to her.  Thou knowest—

ESTRILD.

Not I.
Thou knowest that I know nothing.

LOCRINE.

Nay, I know
That nothing lives under the sweet blue sky
Worth thy sweet heeding, wouldst thou think but so,
Save love—wherewith thou seest thy world fulfilled.

ESTRILD.

Ay,—would I see but with thine eyes.

LOCRINE.

Estrild,
Estrild!

ESTRILD.

No soft reiterance of my name
Can sing my sorrow down that comes and goes
And colours hope with fear and love with shame.
Rose hast thou called me: were I like the rose,
Happier were I than woman: she survives
Not by one hour, like us of longer lives,
The sun she lives in and the love he gives
And takes away: but we, when love grows sere,
Live yet, while trust in love no longer lives,
Nor drink for comfort with the dying year
Death.

LOCRINE.

Wouldst thou drink forgetfulness for wine
To heal thine heart of love toward me?

ESTRILD.

Locrine,
Locrine!

LOCRINE.

Thou wouldst not: do not mock me then,
Saying out of evil heart, in evil jest,
Thy trust is dead to meward.

ESTRILD.

King of men,
Wouldst thou, being only of all men lordliest,
Be lord of women’s thoughts and loving fears?
Nay, wert thou less than lord of worlds and years,
Of stars and suns and seasons, couldst thou dream
To take such empire on thee?

LOCRINE.

Nay, not I—
No more than she there playing beside the stream
To slip within a stormier stream and die.

ESTRILD.

She runs too near the brink.  Sabrina!

LOCRINE.

See,
Her hands are lily-laden: let them be
A flower-sweet symbol for us.

Enter Sabrina.

SABRINA.

Sire!  O sire,
See what fresh flowers—you knew not these before—
The spring has brought, to serve my heart’s desire,
Forth of the river’s barren bed! no more
Will I rebuke these banks for sterile sloth
When spring restores the woodlands.  By my troth,
I hoped not, when you came again, to bring
So large a tribute worth so full a smile.

LOCRINE.

Child! how should I to thee pay tribute?

ESTRILD.

King,
Thou hast not kissed her.

LOCRINE.

Dare my lips defile
Heaven?  O my love, in sight of her and thee
I marvel how the sun should look on me
And spare to turn his beams to fire.

ESTRILD.

The child
Hears, and is troubled.

SABRINA.

Did I wrong, to say
‘Sire?’ but you bade me say so.  He is mild,
And will not chide me.  Father!

ESTRILD.

Hear’st thou?

LOCRINE.

Yea—
I hear.  I would the world beyond our sight
Were dead as worlds forgotten.

ESTRILD.

Wouldst thou fright
Her?

LOCRINE.

Hath all sense forsaken me?  Sabrina,
Thou dost not fear me?

SABRINA.

No.  But when your eyes
Wax red and dark, with flaughts of fire between,
I fear them—or they fright me.

LOCRINE.

Wert thou wise,
They would not.  Never have I looked on thee
So.

SABRINA.

Nay—I fear not what might fall on me.
Here laughs my father—here my mother smiles—
Here smiles and laughs the water—what should I
Fear?

LOCRINE.

Nought more fearful than the water’s wiles—
Which whoso fears not ere he fear shall die.

SABRINA.

Die? and is death no less an ill than dread?
I had liefer die than be nor quick nor dead.
I think there is no death but fear of death.

LOCRINE.

Of death or life or anything but love
What knowest thou?

SABRINA.

Less than these, my mother saith—
Less than the flowers that seeing all heaven above
Fade and wax hoar or darken, lose their trust
And leave their joy and let their glories rust
And die for fear ere winter wound them: we
Live no less glad of snowtime than of spring:
It cannot change my father’s face for me
Nor turn from mine away my mother’s.  King
They call thee: hath thy kingship made thee less
In height of heart than we are?

LOCRINE.

No, and yes.
Here sits my heart at height of hers and thine,
Laughing for love: here not the quiring birds
Sing higher than sings my spirit: I am here Locrine,
Whom no sound vexes here of swords or words,
No cloud of thought or thunder: were my life
Crowned but as lord and sire of child and wife,
Throned but as prince of woodland, bank and bower,
My joys were then imperial, and my state
Firm as a star, that now is as a flower.

SABRINA.

Thou shouldst not then—if joy grow here so great—
Part from us.

LOCRINE.

No: for joy grows elsewhere scant.

SABRINA.

I would fain see the towers of Troynovant.

LOCRINE.

God keep thine eyes fulfilled with sweeter sights,
And this one from them ever!

SABRINA.

Why?  Men say
Thine halls are full of guests, princes and knights,
And lordly musters of superb array;
Why are we thence alone, and alway?

ESTRILD.

Peace,
Child: let thy babble change its note, or cease
Here; is thy sire not wiser—by God’s grace—
Than I or thou?

LOCRINE.

Wouldst thou too see fulfilled
The fear whose shadow fallen on joy’s fair face
Strikes it more sad than sorrow’s own?  Estrild,
Wast thou then happier ere this wildwood shrine
Hid thee from homage, left thee but Locrine
For worshipper less worthy grace of thee
Than those thy sometime suppliants?

ESTRILD.

Nay; my lord
Takes too much thought—if tongues ring true—for me.

LOCRINE.

Such tongues ring falser than a broken chord
Whose jar distunes the music.

ESTRILD.

Wilt thou stay
But three nights here?

LOCRINE.

I had need be hence today.

ESTRILD.

Go.

SABRINA.

But I bid thee tarry; what am I
That thou shouldst heed not what I bid thee?

LOCRINE.

Queen
And empress more imperious and more high
And regent royaller than time hath seen
And mightier mistress of thy sire and thrall:
Yet must I go.  But ere the next moon fall
Again will I grow happy.

ESTRILD.

Who can say?

LOCRINE.

So much can I—except the stars combine
Unseasonably to stay me.

ESTRILD.

Let them stay
The tides, the seasons rather.  Love!  Locrine!
I never parted from thee, nor shall part,
Save with a fire more keen than fire at heart:
But now the pang that wrings me, soul and sense,
And turns fair day to darkness deep as hell,
Warns me, the word that seals thy parting hence—
‘Farewell’—shall bid us never more fare well.

SABRINA.

Lo! she too bids thee tarry; dost thou not
Hear?

LOCRINE.

Might I choose, small need were hers, God wot,
Or thine, to bid me tarry.  When I come
Again—

SABRINA.

Thou shalt not see me: I will hide
From sight of such a sire—or bow down dumb
Before him—strong and hard as he in pride—
And so thou shalt not hear me.

LOCRINE.

Who can tell?
So now say I.

ESTRILD.

God keep my lord!

LOCRINE.

Farewell.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.—Troynovant.  A Room in the Palace.

Enter Guendolen and Madan.

GUENDOLEN.

Come close, and look upon me.  Child or man,—
I know not how to call thee, being my child,
Who know not how myself am called, nor can—
God witness—tell thee what should she be styled
Who bears the brand and burden set on her
That man hath set on me—the lands are wild
Whence late I bade thee hither, swift of spur
As he that rides to guard his mother’s life;
Thou hast found nought loathlier there, nought hate-fuller
In all the wilds that seethe with fluctuant strife,
Than here besets thine advent.  Son, if thou
Be son of mine, and I thy father’s wife—

MADAN.

If heaven be heaven, and God be God.

GUENDOLEN.

As now
We know not if they be.  Give me thine hand.
Thou hast mine eyes beneath thy father’s brow,—
And therefore bears it not the traitor’s brand.
Swear—But I would not bid thee swear in vain
Nor bind thee ere thine own soul understand,
Ere thine own heart be molten with my pain,
To do such work for bitter love of me
As haply, knowing my heart, thou wert not fain—
Even thou—to take upon thee—bind on thee—
Set all thy soul to do or die.

MADAN.

I swear.

GUENDOLEN.

And though thou sworest not, yet the thing should be.
The burden found for me so sore to bear
Why should I lay on any hand but mine,
Or bid thine own take part therein, and wear
A father’s blood upon it—here—for sign?
Ay, now thou pluck’st it forth of hers to whom
Thou sworest and gavest it plighted.  O Locrine,
Thy seed it was that sprang within my womb,
Thine, and none other—traitor born and liar,
False-faced, false-tongued—the fire of hell consume
Me, thee, and him for ever!

MADAN.

Hath my sire
Wronged thee?

GUENDOLEN.

Thy sire? my lord? the flower of men?
How?

MADAN.

For thy tongue was tipped but now with fire—
With fire of hell—against him.

GUENDOLEN.

Now, and then,
Are twain; thou knowest not women, how their tongue
Takes fire, and straight learns patience: Guendolen
Is there no more than crownless woman, wrung
At heart with anguish, and in utterance mad
As even the meanest whom a snake hath stung
So near the heart that all the pulse it had
Grows palpitating poison.  Wilt thou know
Whence?

MADAN.

Could I heal it, then mine own were glad.

GUENDOLEN.

What think’st thou were the bitterest wrong, the woe
Least bearable by woman, worst of all
That man might lay upon her?  Nay, thou art slow:
Speak: though thou speak but folly.  Silent?  Call
To mind whatso thou hast ever heard of ill
Most monstrous, that should turn to fire and gall
The milk and blood of maid or mother—still
Thou shalt not find, I think, what he hath done—
What I endure, and die not.  For my will
It is that holds me yet alive, O son,
Till all my wrong be wroken, here to keep
Fast watch, a living soul before the sun,
Anhungered and athirst for night and sleep,
That will not slake the ravin of her thirst
Nor quench her fire of hunger, till she reap
The harvest loved of all men, last as first—
Vengeance.

MADAN.

What wrong is this he hath done thee?  Words
Are edgeless weapons: live we blest or curst,
No jot the more of evil or good engirds
The life with bitterest curses compassed round
Or girt about with blessing.  Hinds and herds
Wage threats and brawl and wrangle: wind and sound
Suffice their souls for vengeance: we require
Deeds, and till place for these and time be found
Silence.  What bids thee bid me slay my sire?

GUENDOLEN.

I praise the gods that gave me thee: thine heart
Is none of his, no changeling’s in desire,
No coward’s as who begat thee: mine thou art
All, and mine only.  Lend me now thine ear:
Thou knowest—

MADAN.

What anguish holds thy lips apart
And strikes thee silent?  Am I bound to hear
What thou to speak art bound not?

GUENDOLEN.

How my lord,
Our lord, thy sire—the king whose throne is here
Imperial—smote and drove the wolf-like horde
That raged against us from the raging east,
And how their chief sank in the unsounded ford
He thought to traverse, till the floods increased
Against him, and he perished: and Locrine
Found in his camp for sovereign spoil to feast
The sense of power with lustier joy than wine
A woman—Dost thou mock me?

MADAN.

And a fair
Woman, if all men lie not, mother mine—
I have heard so much.  And then?

GUENDOLEN.

Thou dost not dare
Mock me?

MADAN.

I know not what should make thee mad
Though this and worse, howbeit it irk thee, were.
Art thou discrowned, dethroned, disrobed, unclad
Of empire? art thou powerless, bloodless, old?
This were some hurt: but now—thou shouldst be glad
To take this chance upon thee, and to hold
So large a lordly happiness in hand
As when my father’s and thy lord’s is cold
Shall leave in thine the sway of all this land.

GUENDOLEN.

And thou? no she-wolf whelps upon the wold
Whose brood is like thy mother’s.

MADAN.

Nay—I stand
A man thy son before thee.

GUENDOLEN.

And a bold
Man: is thine heart flesh, or a burning brand
Lit to burn up and turn for thee to gold
The kingship of thy sire?

MADAN.

Why, blessed or banned,
We thrive alike—thou knowest it—why, but now
I said so,—scarce the glass has dropped one sand—
And thou didst smile on me—and all thy brow
Smiled.

GUENDOLEN.

Thou dost love then, thou, thy mother yet—
Me, dost thou love a little?  None but thou
There is to love me; for the gods forget—
Nor shall one hear of me a prayer again;
Yea, none of all whose thrones in heaven are set
Shall hear, nor one of all the sons of men.

MADAN.

What wouldst thou have?

GUENDOLEN.

Thou knowest.

MADAN.

I know not.  Speak.

GUENDOLEN.

Have I kept silence all this while?

MADAN.

What then?
What boots it though thy word, thine eye, thy cheek,
Seem all one fire together, if that fire
Sink, and thy face change, and thine heart wax weak,
To hear what deed should slake thy sore desire
And satiate thee with healing?  This alone—
Except thine heart be softer toward my sire
Still than a maid’s who hears a wood-dove moan
And weeps for pity—this should comfort thee:
His death.