The liquid air doth weep for Gwendoline.
The very ground doth groan for Gwendoline.
Aye, they are milder than the Brittain king, For he rejecteth luckless Gwendoline.
THRASIMACHUS.
Sister, complaints are bootless in this cause;This open wrong must have an open plague, This plague must be repaid with grievous war, This war must finish with Locrine's death;His death will soon extinguish our complaints.
GWENDOLINE.
O no, his death will more augment my woes.
He was my husband, brave Thrasimachus, More dear to me than the apple of mine eye, Nor can I find in heart to work his scathe.
THRASIMACHUS.
Madame, if not your proper injuries, Nor my exile, can move you to revenge, Think on our father Corineius' words;His words to us stands always for a law.
Should Locrine live that caused my father's death?
Should Locrine live that now divorceth you?
The heavens, the earth, the air, the fire reclaims, And then why should all we deny the same?
GWENDOLINE.
Then henceforth, farewell womanish complaints!
All childish pity henceforth, then, farewell!
