Locrine - A Tragedy [2]
but shameful.
MADAN.
Thou dost well.
I had liefer cast my soul alive to hell
Than play a false man false. But were he true
And I the traitor--then what heaven should do
I wot not, but myself, being once awake
Out of that treasonous trance, were fain to slake
With all my blood the fire of shame wherein
My soul should burn me living in my sin.
GUENDOLEN.
Thy soul? Yea, there--how knowest thou, boy, so well? -
The fire is lit that feeds the fires of hell.
Mine is aflame this long time now--but thine -
O, how shall God forgive thee this, Locrine,
That thou, for shame of these thy treasons done,
Hast rent the soul in sunder of thy son?
MADAN.
My heart is whole yet, though thy speech be fire
Whose flame lays hold upon it. Hath my sire
Wronged thee?
GUENDOLEN.
Nay, child, I lied--I did but rave -
I jested--was my face, then, sad and grave,
When most I jested with thee? Child, my brain
Is wearied, and my heart worn down with pain:
I thought awhile, for very sorrow's sake,
To play with sorrow--try thy spirit, and take
Comfort--God knows I know not what I said,
My father, whom I loved, being newly dead.
MADAN.
I pray thee that thou jest with me no more
Thus.
GUENDOLEN.
Dost thou now believe me?
MADAN.
No.
GUENDOLEN.
I bore
A brave man when I bore thee.
MADAN.
I desire
No more of laud or leasing. Hath my sire
Wronged thee?
GUENDOLEN.
Never. But wilt thou trust me now?
MADAN.
As trustful am I, mother of mine, as thou.
Enter LOCRINE.
LOCRINE.
The gods be good to thee! How farest thou?
GUENDOLEN.
Well.
Heaven hath no power to hurt me more: and hell
No fire to fear. The world I dwelt in died
With my dead father. King, thy world is wide
Wherein thy soul rejoicingly puts trust:
But mine is strait, and built by death of dust.
LOCRINE.
Thy sire, mine uncle, stood the sole man, then,
That held thy life up happy? Guendolen,
Hast thou nor child nor husband--or are we
Worth no remembrance more at all of thee?
GUENDOLEN.
Thy speech is sweet; thine eyes are flowers that shine:
If ever siren bare a son, Locrine,
To reign in some green island and bear sway
On shores more shining than the front of day
And cliffs whose brightness dulls the morning's brow,
That son of sorceries and of seas art thou.
LOCRINE.
Nay, now thy tongue it is that plays on men;
And yet no siren's honey, Guendolen,
Is this fair speech, though soft as breathes the south,
Which thus I kiss to silence on thy mouth.
GUENDOLEN.
Thy soul is softer than this boy's of thine:
His heart is all toward battle. Was it mine
That put such fire in his? for none that heard
Thy flatteries--nay, I take not back the word -
A flattering lover lives my loving lord -
Could guess thine hand so great with spear or sword.
LOCRINE.
What have I done for thee to mock with praise
And make the boy's eyes widen? All my days
Are worth not all a week, if war be all,
Of his that loved no bloodless festival -
Thy sire, and sire of slaughters: this was one
Who craved no more of comfort from the sun
But light to lighten him toward battle: I
Love no such life as bids men kill or die.
GUENDOLEN.
Wert thou not woman more in word than act,
Then unrevenged thy brother Albanact
Had given his blood to guard his realm and thine:
But he that slew him found thy stroke, Locrine,
Strong as thy speech is gentle.
LOCRINE.
God assoil
The dead our friends and foes!
GUENDOLEN.
A goodly spoil
Was that thine hand made then by Humber's banks
Of all who swelled the Scythian's riotous ranks
With storm of inland surf and surge of steel:
None there were left, if tongues ring true, to feel
The yoke of days that breathe submissive breath
More bitter than the bitterest edge of death.
LOCRINE.
None.
GUENDOLEN.
This was then a day of blood. I heard,
But know not whence I caught the wandering word,
Strange women were there of that outland crew,
Whom ruthlessly thy soldiers ravening slew.
LOCRINE.
Nay, Scythians then had
MADAN.
Thou dost well.
I had liefer cast my soul alive to hell
Than play a false man false. But were he true
And I the traitor--then what heaven should do
I wot not, but myself, being once awake
Out of that treasonous trance, were fain to slake
With all my blood the fire of shame wherein
My soul should burn me living in my sin.
GUENDOLEN.
Thy soul? Yea, there--how knowest thou, boy, so well? -
The fire is lit that feeds the fires of hell.
Mine is aflame this long time now--but thine -
O, how shall God forgive thee this, Locrine,
That thou, for shame of these thy treasons done,
Hast rent the soul in sunder of thy son?
MADAN.
My heart is whole yet, though thy speech be fire
Whose flame lays hold upon it. Hath my sire
Wronged thee?
GUENDOLEN.
Nay, child, I lied--I did but rave -
I jested--was my face, then, sad and grave,
When most I jested with thee? Child, my brain
Is wearied, and my heart worn down with pain:
I thought awhile, for very sorrow's sake,
To play with sorrow--try thy spirit, and take
Comfort--God knows I know not what I said,
My father, whom I loved, being newly dead.
MADAN.
I pray thee that thou jest with me no more
Thus.
GUENDOLEN.
Dost thou now believe me?
MADAN.
No.
GUENDOLEN.
I bore
A brave man when I bore thee.
MADAN.
I desire
No more of laud or leasing. Hath my sire
Wronged thee?
GUENDOLEN.
Never. But wilt thou trust me now?
MADAN.
As trustful am I, mother of mine, as thou.
Enter LOCRINE.
LOCRINE.
The gods be good to thee! How farest thou?
GUENDOLEN.
Well.
Heaven hath no power to hurt me more: and hell
No fire to fear. The world I dwelt in died
With my dead father. King, thy world is wide
Wherein thy soul rejoicingly puts trust:
But mine is strait, and built by death of dust.
LOCRINE.
Thy sire, mine uncle, stood the sole man, then,
That held thy life up happy? Guendolen,
Hast thou nor child nor husband--or are we
Worth no remembrance more at all of thee?
GUENDOLEN.
Thy speech is sweet; thine eyes are flowers that shine:
If ever siren bare a son, Locrine,
To reign in some green island and bear sway
On shores more shining than the front of day
And cliffs whose brightness dulls the morning's brow,
That son of sorceries and of seas art thou.
LOCRINE.
Nay, now thy tongue it is that plays on men;
And yet no siren's honey, Guendolen,
Is this fair speech, though soft as breathes the south,
Which thus I kiss to silence on thy mouth.
GUENDOLEN.
Thy soul is softer than this boy's of thine:
His heart is all toward battle. Was it mine
That put such fire in his? for none that heard
Thy flatteries--nay, I take not back the word -
A flattering lover lives my loving lord -
Could guess thine hand so great with spear or sword.
LOCRINE.
What have I done for thee to mock with praise
And make the boy's eyes widen? All my days
Are worth not all a week, if war be all,
Of his that loved no bloodless festival -
Thy sire, and sire of slaughters: this was one
Who craved no more of comfort from the sun
But light to lighten him toward battle: I
Love no such life as bids men kill or die.
GUENDOLEN.
Wert thou not woman more in word than act,
Then unrevenged thy brother Albanact
Had given his blood to guard his realm and thine:
But he that slew him found thy stroke, Locrine,
Strong as thy speech is gentle.
LOCRINE.
God assoil
The dead our friends and foes!
GUENDOLEN.
A goodly spoil
Was that thine hand made then by Humber's banks
Of all who swelled the Scythian's riotous ranks
With storm of inland surf and surge of steel:
None there were left, if tongues ring true, to feel
The yoke of days that breathe submissive breath
More bitter than the bitterest edge of death.
LOCRINE.
None.
GUENDOLEN.
This was then a day of blood. I heard,
But know not whence I caught the wandering word,
Strange women were there of that outland crew,
Whom ruthlessly thy soldiers ravening slew.
LOCRINE.
Nay, Scythians then had