Locrine - A Tragedy [1]
thou looked upon thy grandsire dead?
MADAN.
Ay.
GUENDOLEN.
Then thou sawest our Britain's heart and head
Death-stricken. Seemed not there my sire to thee
More great than thine, or all men living? We
Stand shadows of the fathers we survive:
Earth bears no more nor sees such births alive.
MADAN.
Why, he was great of thews--and wise, thou say'st:
Yet seems my sire to me the fairer-faced -
The kinglier and the kindlier.
GUENDOLEN.
Yea, his eyes
Are liker seas that feel the summering skies
In concord of sweet colour--and his brow
Shines gentler than my father's ever: thou,
So seeing, dost well to hold thy sire so dear.
MADAN.
I said not that his love sat yet so near
My heart as thine doth: rather am I thine,
Thou knowest, than his.
GUENDOLEN.
Nay--rather seems Locrine
Thy sire than I thy mother.
MADAN.
Wherefore?
GUENDOLEN.
Boy,
Because of all our sires who fought for Troy
Most like thy father and my lord Locrine,
I think, was Paris.
MADAN.
How may man divine
Thy meaning? Blunt am I, thou knowest, of wit;
And scarce yet man--men tell me.
GUENDOLEN.
Ask not it.
I meant not thou shouldst understand--I spake
As one that sighs, to ease her heart of ache,
And would not clothe in words her cause for sighs -
Her naked cause of sorrow.
MADAN.
Wert thou wise,
Mother, thy tongue had chosen of two things one -
Silence, or speech.
GUENDOLEN.
Speech had I chosen, my son,
I had wronged thee--yea, perchance I have wronged thine ears
Too far, to say so much.
MADAN.
Nay, these are tears
That gather toward thine eyelids now. Thou hast broken
Silence--if now thy speech die down unspoken,
Thou dost me wrong indeed--but more than mine
The wrong thou dost thyself is.
GUENDOLEN.
And Locrine -
Were not thy sire wronged likewise of me?
MADAN.
Yea.
GUENDOLEN.
Yet--I may choose yet--nothing will I say
More.
MADAN.
Choose, and have thy choice; it galls not me.
GUENDOLEN.
Son, son! thy speech is bitterer than the sea.
MADAN.
Yet, were the gulfs of hell not bitterer, thine
Might match thy son's, who hast called my sire--Locrine -
Thy lord, and lord of all this land--the king
Whose name is bright and sweet as earth in spring,
Whose love is mixed with Britain's very life
As heaven with earth at sunrise--thou, his wife,
Hast called him--and the poison of the word
Set not thy tongue on fire--I lived and heard -
Coward.
GUENDOLEN.
Thou liest.
MADAN.
If then thy speech rang true,
Why, now it rings not false.
GUENDOLEN.
Thou art treacherous too -
His heart, thy father's very heart is thine -
O, well beseems it, meet it is, Locrine,
That liar and traitor and changeling he should be
Who, though I bare him, was begot by thee.
MADAN.
How have I lied, mother? Was this the lie,
That thou didst call my father coward, and I
Heard?
GUENDOLEN.
Nay--I did but liken him with one
Not all unlike him; thou, my child, his son,
Art more unlike thy father.
MADAN.
Was not then,
Of all our fathers, all recorded men,
The man whose name, thou sayest, is like his name -
Paris--a sign in all men's mouths of shame?
GUENDOLEN.
Nay, save when heaven would cross him in the fight,
He bare him, say the minstrels, as a knight -
Yea, like thy father.
MADAN.
Shame then were it none
Though men should liken me to him?
GUENDOLEN.
My son,
I had rather see thee--see thy brave bright head,
Strong limbs, clear eyes--drop here before me dead.
MADAN.
If he were true man, wherefore?
GUENDOLEN.
False was he;
No coward indeed, but faithless, trothless--we
Hold therefore, as thou sayest, his princely name
Unprincely--dead in honour--quick in shame.
MADAN.
And his to mine thou likenest?
GUENDOLEN.
Thine? to thine?
God rather strike thy life as dark as mine
Than tarnish thus thine honour! For to me
Shameful it seems--I know not if it be -
For men to lie, and smile, and swear, and lie,
And bear the gods of heaven false witness. I
Can hold not this
MADAN.
Ay.
GUENDOLEN.
Then thou sawest our Britain's heart and head
Death-stricken. Seemed not there my sire to thee
More great than thine, or all men living? We
Stand shadows of the fathers we survive:
Earth bears no more nor sees such births alive.
MADAN.
Why, he was great of thews--and wise, thou say'st:
Yet seems my sire to me the fairer-faced -
The kinglier and the kindlier.
GUENDOLEN.
Yea, his eyes
Are liker seas that feel the summering skies
In concord of sweet colour--and his brow
Shines gentler than my father's ever: thou,
So seeing, dost well to hold thy sire so dear.
MADAN.
I said not that his love sat yet so near
My heart as thine doth: rather am I thine,
Thou knowest, than his.
GUENDOLEN.
Nay--rather seems Locrine
Thy sire than I thy mother.
MADAN.
Wherefore?
GUENDOLEN.
Boy,
Because of all our sires who fought for Troy
Most like thy father and my lord Locrine,
I think, was Paris.
MADAN.
How may man divine
Thy meaning? Blunt am I, thou knowest, of wit;
And scarce yet man--men tell me.
GUENDOLEN.
Ask not it.
I meant not thou shouldst understand--I spake
As one that sighs, to ease her heart of ache,
And would not clothe in words her cause for sighs -
Her naked cause of sorrow.
MADAN.
Wert thou wise,
Mother, thy tongue had chosen of two things one -
Silence, or speech.
GUENDOLEN.
Speech had I chosen, my son,
I had wronged thee--yea, perchance I have wronged thine ears
Too far, to say so much.
MADAN.
Nay, these are tears
That gather toward thine eyelids now. Thou hast broken
Silence--if now thy speech die down unspoken,
Thou dost me wrong indeed--but more than mine
The wrong thou dost thyself is.
GUENDOLEN.
And Locrine -
Were not thy sire wronged likewise of me?
MADAN.
Yea.
GUENDOLEN.
Yet--I may choose yet--nothing will I say
More.
MADAN.
Choose, and have thy choice; it galls not me.
GUENDOLEN.
Son, son! thy speech is bitterer than the sea.
MADAN.
Yet, were the gulfs of hell not bitterer, thine
Might match thy son's, who hast called my sire--Locrine -
Thy lord, and lord of all this land--the king
Whose name is bright and sweet as earth in spring,
Whose love is mixed with Britain's very life
As heaven with earth at sunrise--thou, his wife,
Hast called him--and the poison of the word
Set not thy tongue on fire--I lived and heard -
Coward.
GUENDOLEN.
Thou liest.
MADAN.
If then thy speech rang true,
Why, now it rings not false.
GUENDOLEN.
Thou art treacherous too -
His heart, thy father's very heart is thine -
O, well beseems it, meet it is, Locrine,
That liar and traitor and changeling he should be
Who, though I bare him, was begot by thee.
MADAN.
How have I lied, mother? Was this the lie,
That thou didst call my father coward, and I
Heard?
GUENDOLEN.
Nay--I did but liken him with one
Not all unlike him; thou, my child, his son,
Art more unlike thy father.
MADAN.
Was not then,
Of all our fathers, all recorded men,
The man whose name, thou sayest, is like his name -
Paris--a sign in all men's mouths of shame?
GUENDOLEN.
Nay, save when heaven would cross him in the fight,
He bare him, say the minstrels, as a knight -
Yea, like thy father.
MADAN.
Shame then were it none
Though men should liken me to him?
GUENDOLEN.
My son,
I had rather see thee--see thy brave bright head,
Strong limbs, clear eyes--drop here before me dead.
MADAN.
If he were true man, wherefore?
GUENDOLEN.
False was he;
No coward indeed, but faithless, trothless--we
Hold therefore, as thou sayest, his princely name
Unprincely--dead in honour--quick in shame.
MADAN.
And his to mine thou likenest?
GUENDOLEN.
Thine? to thine?
God rather strike thy life as dark as mine
Than tarnish thus thine honour! For to me
Shameful it seems--I know not if it be -
For men to lie, and smile, and swear, and lie,
And bear the gods of heaven false witness. I
Can hold not this