Assa.
But tell me, cousin, dy'd my brother so?
Now who is left to helpless Albion,
That as a pillar might uphold our state,
That might strike terror to our daring foes?
Now who is left to hapless Britany,
That might defend her from the barbarous hands
Of those that still desire her ruinous fall,
And seek to work her downfal and decay?

Cam.
Ay uncle, death's our common enemy,
And none but death can match our matchless power,
Witness the fall of Albioneus' crew,
Witness the fall of Humber and his Huns;
And this foul death hath now increas'd our woe,
By taking Corineus from this life,
And in his room leaving us worlds of care.

Thra.
But none may more bewail his mournful hearse,
Than I that am the issue of his loins.
Now foul befal that cursed Humber's throat,
That was the causer of his lingring wound!

Loc.
Tears cannot raise him from the dead again.—
But where's my lady mistress, Guendolen?

Thra.
In Cornwall, Locrine, is my sister now,
Providing for my father's funeral.

Loc.
And let her there provide her mourning weeds,
And mourn for ever her own widow-hood.
Ne'er shall she come within our palace gate,
To countercheck brave Locrine in his love.
Go, boy, to Durolitum, down the Ley,
Unto the arch where lovely Estrild lies;
Bring her and Sabren straight unto the court:
She shall be queen in Guendolena's room.
Let others wail for Corineus' death;
I mean not so to macerate my mind^{2 note},
For him that barr'd me from my heart's desire.

Thra.
Hath Locrine then forsook his Guendolen?
Is Corineus' death so soon forgot?
If there be gods in heaven, as sure there be,
If there be fiends in hell, as needs there must,
They will revenge this thy notorious wrong,
And pour their plagues upon thy cursed head.

Loc.
What, prat'st thou, peasant, to thy sovereign?
Or art thou strucken in some ecstasy?
Dost thou not tremble at our royal looks?
Dost thou not quake, when mighty Locrine frowns?
Thou beardless boy, were't not that Locrine scorns
To vex his mind with such a heartless child,
With the sharp point of this my battle-axe
I'd send thy soul to Pyriphlegethon.

Thra.
Though I be young and of a tender age,
Yet will I cope with Locrine when he dares.
My noble father with his conquering sword
Slew the two giants, kings of Aquitain.
Thrasimachus is not so degenerate,

That he should fear and tremble at the looks
Or taunting words of a Venerean squire^{3 note}.

Loc.
Menacest thou thy royal sovereign?
Uncivil, not beseeming such as you.
Injurious traitor, (for he is no less
That at defiance standeth with his king)
Leave these thy taunts, leave these thy bragging words,
Unless thou mean'st to leave thy wretched life.

Thra.
If princes stain their glorious dignity
With ugly spots of monstrous infamy,
They leese^{4 note} their former estimation,
And throw themselves into a hell of hate.

Loc.
Wilt thou abuse my gentle patience,
As though thou didst our high displeasure scorn?
Proud boy, that thou may'st know thy prince is mov'd,
Yea, greatly mov'd at this thy swelling pride,
We banish thee for ever from our court.

Thra.
Then, losel Locrine^{5 note}, look unto thyself;
Thrasimachus will venge this injury. [Exit.

Loc.
Farewel, proud boy, and learn to use thy tongue^{6 note}.

Assa.
Alas, my lord, you should have call'd to mind
The latest words that Brutus spake to you;
How he desir'd you, by the obedience
That children ought to bear unto their sire,
To love and favour lady Guendolen.
Consider this, that if the injury

Do move her mind, as certainly it will,
War and dissention follows speedily.
What though her power be not so great as yours?
Have you not seen a mighty elephant
Slain by the biting of a silly mouse?
Even so the chance of war inconstant is.

Loc.
Peace, uncle, peace, and cease to talk hereof;
For he that seeks, by whispering this or that,
To trouble Locrine in his sweetest life,
Let him persuade himself to die the death. Enter Estrild, Sabren, and a Page.

Est.
O say me, page^{7 note}, tell me, where is the king.
Wherefore doth he send for me to the court?
Is it to die? is it to end my life?
Say me, sweet boy; tell me and do not feign.

Page.

No, trust me, madam: if you will credit the little honesty that is yet left me, there is no such danger as you fear. But prepare yourself; yonder's the king.

Est.
Then, Estrild, lift thy dazzled spirits up,
And bless that blessed time, that day, that hour,
That warlike Locrine first did favour thee.
Peace to the king of Britany, my love! [Kneeling.
Peace to all those that love and favour him!

Loc.
Doth Estrild fall with such submission
Before her servant, king of Albion?
Arise, fair lady, leave this lowly cheer; [Taking her up.
Lift up those looks that cherish Locrine's heart,
That I may freely view that roseal face,
Which so intangled hath my love-sick breast.
Now to the court, where we will court it out,

And pass the night and day in Venus' sports.
Frolick, brave peers; be joyful with your king. [Exeunt.

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