ACT II.

Scene I. A court within the Castle of the Earl of Gloucester.

[Enter Edmund and Curan, meeting.]

Edm.

Save thee, Curan.

Cur.

And you, sir. I have been with your father, and given him

notice that the Duke of Cornwall and Regan his duchess will be

here with him this night.

Edm.

How comes that?

Cur.

Nay, I know not.—You have heard of the news abroad; I mean the

whispered ones, for they are yet but ear-kissing arguments?

Edm.

Not I: pray you, what are they?

Cur.

Have you heard of no likely wars toward, ‘twixt the two dukes

of Cornwall and Albany?

Edm.

Not a word.

Cur.

You may do, then, in time. Fare you well, sir.

[Exit.]

Edm.

The Duke be here to-night? The better! best!

This weaves itself perforce into my business.

My father hath set guard to take my brother;

And I have one thing, of a queasy question,

Which I must act:—briefness and fortune work!—

Brother, a word!—descend:—brother, I say!

[Enter Edgar.]

My father watches:—sir, fly this place;

Intelligence is given where you are hid;

You have now the good advantage of the night.—

Have you not spoken ‘gainst the Duke of Cornwall?

He’s coming hither; now, i’ the night, i’ the haste,

And Regan with him: have you nothing said

Upon his party ‘gainst the Duke of Albany?

Advise yourself.

Edg.

I am sure on’t, not a word.

Edm.

I hear my father coming:—pardon me;

In cunning I must draw my sword upon you:—

Draw: seem to defend yourself: now quit you well.—

Yield:—come before my father.—Light, ho, here!

Fly, brother.—Torches, torches!—So farewell.

[Exit Edgar.]

Some blood drawn on me would beget opinion

Of my more fierce endeavour: [Wounds his arm.]

I have seen drunkards

Do more than this in sport.—Father, father!

Stop, stop! No help?

[Enter Gloucester, and Servants with torches.]

Glou.

Now, Edmund, where’s the villain?

Edm.

Here stood he in the dark, his sharp sword out,

Mumbling of wicked charms, conjuring the moon

To stand auspicious mistress,—

Glou.

But where is he?

Edm.

Look, sir, I bleed.

Glou.

Where is the villain, Edmund?

Edm.

Fled this way, sir. When by no means he could,—

Glou.

Pursue him, ho!—Go after.

[Exeunt Servants.]

—By no means what?

Edm.

Persuade me to the murder of your lordship;

But that I told him the revenging gods

‘Gainst parricides did all their thunders bend;

Spoke with how manifold and strong a bond

The child was bound to the father;—sir, in fine,

Seeing how loathly opposite I stood

To his unnatural purpose, in fell motion

With his prepared sword, he charges home

My unprovided body, lanc’d mine arm;

But when he saw my best alarum’d spirits,

Bold in the quarrel’s right, rous’d to the encounter,

Or whether gasted by the noise I made,

Full suddenly he fled.

Glou.

Let him fly far;

Not in this land shall he remain uncaught;

And found—dispatch’d.—The noble duke my master,

My worthy arch and patron, comes to-night:

By his authority I will proclaim it,

That he which finds him shall deserve our thanks,

Bringing the murderous coward to the stake;

He that conceals him, death.

Edm.

When I dissuaded him from his intent,

And found him pight to do it, with curst speech

I threaten’d to discover him: he replied,

‘Thou unpossessing bastard! dost thou think,

If I would stand against thee, would the reposal

Of any trust, virtue, or worth in thee

Make thy words faith’d? No: what I should deny

As this I would; ay, though thou didst produce

My very character, I’d turn it all

To thy suggestion, plot, and damned practice:

And thou must make a dullard of the world,

If they not thought the profits of my death

Were very pregnant and potential spurs

To make thee seek it.

Glou.

Strong and fast’ned villain!

Would he deny his letter?—I never got him.

[Trumpets within.]

Hark, the duke’s trumpets! I know not why he comes.—

All ports I’ll bar; the villain shall not scape;

The duke must grant me that: besides, his picture

I will send far and near, that all the kingdom

May have due note of him; and of my land,

Loyal and natural boy, I’ll work the means

To make thee capable.

[Enter Cornwall, Regan, and Attendants.]

Corn.

How now, my noble friend! since I came hither,—

Which I can call but now,—I have heard strange news.

Reg.

If it be true, all vengeance comes too short

Which can pursue the offender. How dost, my lord?

Glou.

O madam, my old heart is crack’d,—it’s crack’d!

Reg.

What, did my father’s godson seek your life?

He whom my father nam’d? your Edgar?

Glou.

O lady, lady, shame would have it hid!

Reg.

Was he not companion with the riotous knights

That tend upon my father?

Glou.

I know not, madam:—

It is too bad, too bad.

Edm.

Yes, madam, he was of that consort.

Reg.

No marvel then though he were ill affected:

‘Tis they have put him on the old man’s death,

To have the expense and waste of his revenues.

I have this present evening from my sister

Been well inform’d of them; and with such cautions

That if they come to sojourn at my house,

I’ll not be there.

Corn.

Nor I, assure thee, Regan.—

Edmund, I hear that you have shown your father

A childlike office.

Edm.

‘Twas my duty, sir.

Glou.

He did bewray his practice; and receiv’d

This hurt you see, striving to apprehend him.

Corn.

Is he pursu’d?

Glou.

Ay, my good lord.

Corn.

If he be taken, he shall never more

Be fear’d of doing harm: make your own purpose,

How in my strength you please.—For you, Edmund,

Whose virtue and obedience doth this instant

So much commend itself, you shall be ours:

Natures of such deep trust we shall much need;

You we first seize on.

Edm.

I shall serve you, sir,

Truly, however else.

Glou.

For him I thank your grace.

Corn.

You know not why we came to visit you,—

Reg.

Thus out of season, threading dark-ey’d night:

Occasions, noble Gloucester, of some poise,

Wherein we must have use of your advice:—

Our father he hath writ, so hath our sister,

Of differences, which I best thought it fit

To answer from our home; the several messengers

From hence attend despatch. Our good old friend,

Lay comforts to your bosom; and bestow

Your needful counsel to our business,

Which craves the instant use.

Glou.

I serve you, madam:

Your graces are right welcome.

[Exeunt.]

Scene II. Before Gloucester’s Castle.[edit]

[Enter Kent and Oswald, severally.]

Osw.

Good dawning to thee, friend: art of this house?

Kent.

Ay.

Osw.

Where may we set our horses?

Kent.

I’ the mire.

Osw.

Pr’ythee, if thou lov’st me, tell me.

Kent.

I love thee not.

Osw.

Why then, I care not for thee.

Kent.

If I had thee in Lipsbury pinfold, I would make thee care for me.

Osw.

Why dost thou use me thus? I know thee not.

Kent.

Fellow, I know thee.

Osw.

What dost thou know me for?

Kent.

A knave; a rascal; an eater of broken meats; a base, proud,

shallow, beggarly, three-suited, hundred-pound, filthy,

worsted-stocking knave; a lily-livered, action-taking, whoreson,

glass-gazing, superserviceable, finical rogue;

one-trunk-inheriting slave; one that wouldst be a bawd in way of

good service, and art nothing but the composition of a

knave, beggar, coward, pander, and the son and heir of a mongrel

bitch: one whom I will beat into clamorous whining, if thou

denyest the least syllable of thy addition.

Osw.

Why, what a monstrous fellow art thou, thus to rail on one that’s

neither known of thee nor knows thee?

Kent.

What a brazen-faced varlet art thou, to deny thou knowest me! Is

it two days ago since I beat thee and tripped up thy heels before

the king? Draw, you rogue: for, though it be night, yet the moon

shines; I’ll make a sop o’ the moonshine of you: draw, you

whoreson cullionly barbermonger, draw!

[Drawing his sword.]

Osw.

Away! I have nothing to do with thee.

Kent.

Draw, you rascal: you come with letters against the king; and

take vanity the puppet’s part against the royalty of her father:

draw, you rogue, or I’ll so carbonado your shanks:—

draw, you rascal; come your ways!

Osw.

Help, ho! murder! help!

Kent.

Strike, you slave; stand, rogue, stand; you neat slave, strike!

[Beating him.]

Osw.

Help, ho! murder! murder!

[Enter Edmund, Cornwall, Regan, Gloucester, and Servants.]

Edm.

How now! What’s the matter?

Kent.

With you, goodman boy, an you please: come, I’ll flesh you; come

on, young master.

Glou.

Weapons! arms! What’s the matter here?

Corn.

Keep peace, upon your lives;

He dies that strikes again. What is the matter?

Reg.

The messengers from our sister and the king.

Corn.

What is your difference? speak.

Osw.

I am scarce in breath, my lord.

Kent.

No marvel, you have so bestirr’d your valour. You cowardly

rascal, nature disclaims in thee; a tailor made thee.

Corn.

Thou art a strange fellow: a tailor make a man?

Kent.

Ay, a tailor, sir: a stonecutter or a painter could not have

made him so ill, though he had been but two hours at the trade.

Corn.

Speak yet, how grew your quarrel?

Osw.

This ancient ruffian, sir, whose life I have spared at suit of

his grey

beard,—

Kent.

Thou whoreson zed! thou unnecessary letter!—My lord, if you’ll

give me leave, I will tread this unbolted villain into mortar and

daub the walls of a jakes with him.—Spare my grey beard, you

wagtail?

Corn.

Peace, sirrah!

You beastly knave, know you no reverence?

Kent.

Yes, sir; but anger hath a privilege.

Corn.

Why art thou angry?

Kent.

That such a slave as this should wear a sword,

Who wears no honesty. Such smiling rogues as these,

Like rats, oft bite the holy cords a-twain

Which are too intrinse t’ unloose; smooth every passion

That in the natures of their lords rebel;

Bring oil to fire, snow to their colder moods;

Renege, affirm, and turn their halcyon beaks

With every gale and vary of their masters,

Knowing naught, like dogs, but following.—

A plague upon your epileptic visage!

Smile you my speeches, as I were a fool?

Goose, an I had you upon Sarum plain,

I’d drive ye cackling home to Camelot.

Corn.

What, art thou mad, old fellow?

Glou.

How fell you out?

Say that.

Kent.

No contraries hold more antipathy

Than I and such a knave.

Corn.

Why dost thou call him knave? What is his fault?

Kent.

His countenance likes me not.

Corn.

No more perchance does mine, or his, or hers.

Kent.

Sir, ’tis my occupation to be plain:

I have seen better faces in my time

Than stands on any shoulder that I see

Before me at this instant.

Corn.

This is some fellow

Who, having been prais’d for bluntness, doth affect

A saucy roughness, and constrains the garb

Quite from his nature: he cannot flatter, he,—

An honest mind and plain,—he must speak truth!

An they will take it, so; if not, he’s plain.

These kind of knaves I know which in this plainness

Harbour more craft and more corrupter ends

Than twenty silly-ducking observants

That stretch their duties nicely.

Kent.

Sir, in good faith, in sincere verity,

Under the allowance of your great aspect,

Whose influence, like the wreath of radiant fire

On flickering Phoebus’ front,—

Corn.

What mean’st by this?

Kent.

To go out of my dialect, which you discommend so much. I know,

sir, I am no flatterer: he that beguiled you in a plain accent

was a plain knave; which, for my part, I will not be, though I

should win your displeasure to entreat me to’t.

Corn.

What was the offence you gave him?

Osw.

I never gave him any:

It pleas’d the king his master very late

To strike at me, upon his misconstruction;

When he, compact, and flattering his displeasure,

Tripp’d me behind; being down, insulted, rail’d

And put upon him such a deal of man,

That worthied him, got praises of the king

For him attempting who was self-subdu’d;

And, in the fleshment of this dread exploit,

Drew on me here again.

Kent.

None of these rogues and cowards

But Ajax is their fool.

Corn.

Fetch forth the stocks!—

You stubborn ancient knave, you reverent braggart,

We’ll teach you,—

Kent.

Sir, I am too old to learn:

Call not your stocks for me: I serve the king;

On whose employment I was sent to you:

You shall do small respect, show too bold malice

Against the grace and person of my master,

Stocking his messenger.

Corn.

Fetch forth the stocks!—As I have life and honour,

there shall he sit till noon.

Reg.

Till noon! Till night, my lord; and all night too!

Kent.

Why, madam, if I were your father’s dog,

You should not use me so.

Reg.

Sir, being his knave, I will.

Corn.

This is a fellow of the self-same colour

Our sister speaks of.—Come, bring away the stocks!

[Stocks brought out.]

Glou.

Let me beseech your grace not to do so:

His fault is much, and the good king his master

Will check him for’t: your purpos’d low correction

Is such as basest and contemned’st wretches

For pilferings and most common trespasses,

Are punish’d with: the king must take it ill

That he, so slightly valu’d in his messenger,

Should have him thus restrain’d.

Corn.

I’ll answer that.

Reg.

My sister may receive it much more worse,

To have her gentleman abus’d, assaulted,

For following her affairs.—Put in his legs.—

[Kent is put in the stocks.]

Come, my good lord, away.

[Exeunt all but Gloucester and Kent.]

Glou.

I am sorry for thee, friend; ’tis the duke’s pleasure,

Whose disposition, all the world well knows,

Will not be rubb’d nor stopp’d; I’ll entreat for thee.

Kent.

Pray do not, sir: I have watch’d, and travell’d hard;

Some time I shall sleep out, the rest I’ll whistle.

A good man’s fortune may grow out at heels:

Give you good morrow!

Glou.

The duke’s to blame in this: ’twill be ill taken.

[Exit.]

Kent.

Good king, that must approve the common saw,—

Thou out of heaven’s benediction com’st

To the warm sun!

Approach, thou beacon to this under globe,

That by thy comfortable beams I may

Peruse this letter.—Nothing almost sees miracles

But misery:—I know ’tis from Cordelia,

Who hath most fortunately been inform’d

Of my obscured course; and shall find time

From this enormous state,—seeking to give

Losses their remedies,—All weary and o’erwatch’d,

Take vantage, heavy eyes, not to behold

This shameful lodging.

Fortune, good night: smile once more, turn thy wheel!

[He sleeps.]

Scene III. The open Country.[edit]

[Enter Edgar.]

Edg.

I heard myself proclaim’d;

And by the happy hollow of a tree

Escap’d the hunt. No port is free; no place

That guard and most unusual vigilance

Does not attend my taking. While I may scape,

I will preserve myself: and am bethought

To take the basest and most poorest shape

That ever penury, in contempt of man,

Brought near to beast: my face I’ll grime with filth;

Blanket my loins; elf all my hair in knots;

And with presented nakedness outface

The winds and persecutions of the sky.

The country gives me proof and precedent

Of Bedlam beggars, who, with roaring voices,

Strike in their numb’d and mortified bare arms

Pins, wooden pricks, nails, sprigs of rosemary;

And with this horrible object, from low farms,

Poor pelting villages, sheep-cotes, and mills,

Sometime with lunatic bans, sometime with prayers,

Enforce their charity.—Poor Turlygod! poor Tom!

That’s something yet:—Edgar I nothing am.

[Exit.]

Scene IV. Before Gloucester’s Castle; Kent in the stocks.[edit]

[Enter Lear, Fool, and Gentleman.]

Lear.

‘Tis strange that they should so depart from home,

And not send back my messenger.

Gent.

As I learn’d,

The night before there was no purpose in them

Of this remove.

Kent.

Hail to thee, noble master!

Lear.

Ha!

Mak’st thou this shame thy pastime?

Kent.

No, my lord.

Fool.

Ha, ha! he wears cruel garters. Horses are tied by the

head; dogs and bears by the neck, monkeys by the loins, and

men by the legs: when a man is over-lusty at legs, then he

wears wooden nether-stocks.

Lear.

What’s he that hath so much thy place mistook

To set thee here?

Kent.

It is both he and she,

Your son and daughter.

Lear.

No.

Kent.

Yes.

Lear.

No, I say.

Kent.

I say, yea.

Lear.

By Jupiter, I swear no.

Kent.

By Juno, I swear ay.

Lear.

They durst not do’t.

They would not, could not do’t; ’tis worse than murder,

To do upon respect such violent outrage:

Resolve me, with all modest haste, which way

Thou mightst deserve or they impose this usage,

Coming from us.

Kent.

My lord, when at their home

I did commend your highness’ letters to them,

Ere I was risen from the place that show’d

My duty kneeling, came there a reeking post,

Stew’d in his haste, half breathless, panting forth

From Goneril his mistress salutations;

Deliver’d letters, spite of intermission,

Which presently they read: on whose contents,

They summon’d up their meiny, straight took horse;

Commanded me to follow and attend

The leisure of their answer; gave me cold looks:

And meeting here the other messenger,

Whose welcome I perceiv’d had poison’d mine,—

Being the very fellow which of late

Display’d so saucily against your highness,—

Having more man than wit about me, drew:

He rais’d the house with loud and coward cries.

Your son and daughter found this trespass worth

The shame which here it suffers.

Fool.

Winter’s not gone yet, if the wild geese fly that way.

Fathers that wear rags

Do make their children blind;

But fathers that bear bags

Shall see their children kind.

Fortune, that arrant whore,

Ne’er turns the key to th’ poor.

But for all this, thou shalt have as many dolours for thy

daughters as thou canst tell in a year.

Lear.

O, how this mother swells up toward my heart!

Hysterica passio,—down, thou climbing sorrow,

Thy element’s below!—Where is this daughter?

Kent.

With the earl, sir, here within.

Lear.

Follow me not;

Stay here.

[Exit.]

Gent.

Made you no more offence but what you speak of?

Kent.

None.

How chance the king comes with so small a number?

Fool.

An thou hadst been set i’ the stocks for that question,

thou hadst well deserved it.

Kent.

Why, fool?

Fool.

We’ll set thee to school to an ant, to teach thee there’s no

labouring in the winter. All that follow their noses are led by

their eyes but blind men; and there’s not a nose among twenty

but can smell him that’s stinking. Let go thy hold when a great

wheel runs down a hill, lest it break thy neck with following

it; but the great one that goes up the hill, let him draw thee

after.

When a wise man gives thee better counsel, give me mine again: I

would have none but knaves follow it, since a fool gives it.

That sir which serves and seeks for gain,

And follows but for form,

Will pack when it begins to rain,

And leave thee in the storm.

But I will tarry; the fool will stay,

And let the wise man fly:

The knave turns fool that runs away;

The fool no knave, perdy.

Kent.

Where learn’d you this, fool?

Fool.

Not i’ the stocks, fool.

[Re-enter Lear, with Gloucester.]

Lear.

Deny to speak with me? They are sick? they are weary?

They have travell’d all the night? Mere fetches;

The images of revolt and flying off.

Fetch me a better answer.

Glou.

My dear lord,

You know the fiery quality of the duke;

How unremovable and fix’d he is

In his own course.

Lear.

Vengeance! plague! death! confusion!—

Fiery? What quality? why, Gloucester, Gloucester,

I’d speak with the Duke of Cornwall and his wife.

Glou.

Well, my good lord, I have inform’d them so.

Lear.

Inform’d them! Dost thou understand me, man?

Glou.

Ay, my good lord.

Lear.

The King would speak with Cornwall; the dear father

Would with his daughter speak, commands her service:

Are they inform’d of this?—My breath and blood!—

Fiery? the fiery duke?—Tell the hot duke that—

No, but not yet: may be he is not well:

Infirmity doth still neglect all office

Whereto our health is bound: we are not ourselves

When nature, being oppress’d, commands the mind

To suffer with the body: I’ll forbear;

And am fallen out with my more headier will,

To take the indispos’d and sickly fit

For the sound man.—Death on my state! Wherefore

[Looking on Kent.]

Should he sit here? This act persuades me

That this remotion of the duke and her

Is practice only. Give me my servant forth.

Go tell the duke and’s wife I’d speak with them,

Now, presently: bid them come forth and hear me,

Or at their chamber door I’ll beat the drum

Till it cry ‘Sleep to death.’

Glou.

I would have all well betwixt you.

[Exit.]

Lear.

O me, my heart, my rising heart!—but down!

Fool.

Cry to it, nuncle, as the cockney did to the eels when she

put ’em i’ the paste alive; she knapped ’em o’ the coxcombs with

a stick and cried ‘Down, wantons, down!’ ‘Twas her brother that,

in pure kindness to his horse, buttered his hay.

[Enter Cornwall, Regan, Gloucester, and Servants.]

Lear.

Good-morrow to you both.

Corn.

Hail to your grace!

[Kent is set at liberty.]

Reg.

I am glad to see your highness.

Lear.

Regan, I think you are; I know what reason

I have to think so: if thou shouldst not be glad,

I would divorce me from thy mother’s tomb,

Sepulchring an adultress.—[To Kent] O, are you free?

Some other time for that.—Beloved Regan,

Thy sister’s naught: O Regan, she hath tied

Sharp-tooth’d unkindness, like a vulture, here,—

[Points to his heart.]

I can scarce speak to thee; thou’lt not believe

With how deprav’d a quality—O Regan!

Reg.

I pray you, sir, take patience: I have hope

You less know how to value her desert

Than she to scant her duty.

Lear.

Say, how is that?

Reg.

I cannot think my sister in the least

Would fail her obligation: if, sir, perchance

She have restrain’d the riots of your followers,

‘Tis on such ground, and to such wholesome end,

As clears her from all blame.

Lear.

My curses on her!

Reg.

O, sir, you are old;

Nature in you stands on the very verge

Of her confine: you should be rul’d and led

By some discretion, that discerns your state

Better than you yourself. Therefore, I pray you,

That to our sister you do make return;

Say you have wrong’d her, sir.

Lear.

Ask her forgiveness?

Do you but mark how this becomes the house:

‘Dear daughter, I confess that I am old;

[Kneeling.]

Age is unnecessary: on my knees I beg

That you’ll vouchsafe me raiment, bed, and food.’

Reg.

Good sir, no more! These are unsightly tricks:

Return you to my sister.

Lear.

[Rising.] Never, Regan:

She hath abated me of half my train;

Look’d black upon me; struck me with her tongue,

Most serpent-like, upon the very heart:—

All the stor’d vengeances of heaven fall

On her ingrateful top! Strike her young bones,

You taking airs, with lameness!

Corn.

Fie, sir, fie!

Lear.

You nimble lightnings, dart your blinding flames

Into her scornful eyes! Infect her beauty,

You fen-suck’d fogs, drawn by the powerful sun,

To fall and blast her pride!

Reg.

O the blest gods!

So will you wish on me when the rash mood is on.

Lear.

No, Regan, thou shalt never have my curse:

Thy tender-hefted nature shall not give

Thee o’er to harshness: her eyes are fierce; but thine

Do comfort, and not burn. ‘Tis not in thee

To grudge my pleasures, to cut off my train,

To bandy hasty words, to scant my sizes,

And, in conclusion, to oppose the bolt

Against my coming in: thou better know’st

The offices of nature, bond of childhood,

Effects of courtesy, dues of gratitude;

Thy half o’ the kingdom hast thou not forgot,

Wherein I thee endow’d.

Reg.

Good sir, to the purpose.

Lear.

Who put my man i’ the stocks?

[Tucket within.]

Corn.

What trumpet’s that?

Reg.

I know’t—my sister’s: this approves her letter,

That she would soon be here.

[Enter Oswald.]

Is your lady come?

Lear.

This is a slave, whose easy-borrowed pride

Dwells in the fickle grace of her he follows.—

Out, varlet, from my sight!

Corn.

What means your grace?

Lear.

Who stock’d my servant? Regan, I have good hope

Thou didst not know on’t.—Who comes here? O heavens!

[Enter Goneril.]

If you do love old men, if your sweet sway

Allow obedience, if yourselves are old,

Make it your cause; send down, and take my part!—

[To Goneril.] Art not asham’d to look upon this beard?—

O Regan, wilt thou take her by the hand?

Gon.

Why not by the hand, sir? How have I offended?

All’s not offence that indiscretion finds

And dotage terms so.

Lear.

O sides, you are too tough!

Will you yet hold?—How came my man i’ the stocks?

Corn.

I set him there, sir: but his own disorders

Deserv’d much less advancement.

Lear.

You? did you?

Reg.

I pray you, father, being weak, seem so.

If, till the expiration of your month,

You will return and sojourn with my sister,

Dismissing half your train, come then to me:

I am now from home, and out of that provision

Which shall be needful for your entertainment.

Lear.

Return to her, and fifty men dismiss’d?

No, rather I abjure all roofs, and choose

To wage against the enmity o’ the air;

To be a comrade with the wolf and owl,—

Necessity’s sharp pinch!—Return with her?

Why, the hot-blooded France, that dowerless took

Our youngest born, I could as well be brought

To knee his throne, and, squire-like, pension beg

To keep base life afoot.—Return with her?

Persuade me rather to be slave and sumpter

To this detested groom.

[Pointing to Oswald.]

Gon.

At your choice, sir.

Lear.

I pr’ythee, daughter, do not make me mad:

I will not trouble thee, my child; farewell:

We’ll no more meet, no more see one another:—

But yet thou art my flesh, my blood, my daughter;

Or rather a disease that’s in my flesh,

Which I must needs call mine: thou art a boil,

A plague sore, an embossed carbuncle

In my corrupted blood. But I’ll not chide thee;

Let shame come when it will, I do not call it:

I do not bid the thunder-bearer shoot

Nor tell tales of thee to high-judging Jove:

Mend when thou canst; be better at thy leisure:

I can be patient; I can stay with Regan,

I and my hundred knights.

Reg.

Not altogether so:

I look’d not for you yet, nor am provided

For your fit welcome. Give ear, sir, to my sister;

For those that mingle reason with your passion

Must be content to think you old, and so—

But she knows what she does.

Lear.

Is this well spoken?

Reg.

I dare avouch it, sir: what, fifty followers?

Is it not well? What should you need of more?

Yea, or so many, sith that both charge and danger

Speak ‘gainst so great a number? How in one house

Should many people, under two commands,

Hold amity? ‘Tis hard; almost impossible.

Gon.

Why might not you, my lord, receive attendance

From those that she calls servants, or from mine?

Reg.

Why not, my lord? If then they chanc’d to slack you,

We could control them. If you will come to me,—

For now I spy a danger,—I entreat you

To bring but five-and-twenty: to no more

Will I give place or notice.

Lear.

I gave you all,—

Reg.

And in good time you gave it.

Lear.

Made you my guardians, my depositaries;

But kept a reservation to be follow’d

With such a number. What, must I come to you

With five-and-twenty, Regan? said you so?

Reg.

And speak’t again my lord; no more with me.

Lear.

Those wicked creatures yet do look well-favour’d

When others are more wicked; not being the worst

Stands in some rank of praise.—

[To Goneril.] I’ll go with thee:

Thy fifty yet doth double five-and-twenty,

And thou art twice her love.

Gon.

Hear, me, my lord:

What need you five-and-twenty, ten, or five,

To follow in a house where twice so many

Have a command to tend you?

Reg.

What need one?

Lear.

O, reason not the need: our basest beggars

Are in the poorest thing superfluous:

Allow not nature more than nature needs,

Man’s life is cheap as beast’s: thou art a lady;

If only to go warm were gorgeous,

Why, nature needs not what thou gorgeous wear’st

Which scarcely keeps thee warm.—But, for true need,—

You heavens, give me that patience, patience I need!

You see me here, you gods, a poor old man,

As full of grief as age; wretched in both!

If it be you that stirs these daughters’ hearts

Against their father, fool me not so much

To bear it tamely; touch me with noble anger,

And let not women’s weapons, water-drops,

Stain my man’s cheeks!—No, you unnatural hags,

I will have such revenges on you both

That all the world shall,—I will do such things,—

What they are yet, I know not; but they shall be

The terrors of the earth. You think I’ll weep;

No, I’ll not weep:—

I have full cause of weeping; but this heart

Shall break into a hundred thousand flaws

Or ere I’ll weep.—O fool, I shall go mad!

[Exeunt Lear, Gloucester, Kent, and Fool. Storm heard at a distance.]

Corn.

Let us withdraw; ’twill be a storm.

Reg.

This house is little: the old man and his people

Cannot be well bestow’d.

Gon.

‘Tis his own blame; hath put himself from rest

And must needs taste his folly.

Reg.

For his particular, I’ll receive him gladly,

But not one follower.

Gon.

So am I purpos’d.

Where is my lord of Gloucester?

Corn.

Followed the old man forth:—he is return’d.

[Re-enter Gloucester.]

Glou.

The king is in high rage.

Corn.

Whither is he going?

Glou.

He calls to horse; but will I know not whither.

Corn.

‘Tis best to give him way; he leads himself.

Gon.

My lord, entreat him by no means to stay.

Glou.

Alack, the night comes on, and the high winds

Do sorely ruffle; for many miles about

There’s scarce a bush.

Reg.

O, sir, to wilful men

The injuries that they themselves procure

Must be their schoolmasters. Shut up your doors:

He is attended with a desperate train;

And what they may incense him to, being apt

To have his ear abus’d, wisdom bids fear.

Corn.

Shut up your doors, my lord; ’tis a wild night:

My Regan counsels well: come out o’ the storm.

[Exeunt.]