Chapter 31
Part 31
FOOL. Why, after I have cut the egg i’ the middle and eat up the meat, the two crowns of the egg. When thou clovest thy crown i’ the middle and gav’st away both parts, thou bor’st thine ass on thy back o’er the dirt: thou hadst little wit in thy bald crown when thou gav’st thy golden one away. If I speak like myself in this, let him be whipped that first finds it so. [_Singing._] Fools had ne’er less grace in a year; For wise men are grown foppish, And know not how their wits to wear, Their manners are so apish.
LEAR. When were you wont to be so full of songs, sirrah?
FOOL. I have used it, nuncle, e’er since thou mad’st thy daughters thy mothers; for when thou gav’st them the rod, and put’st down thine own breeches, [_Singing._] Then they for sudden joy did weep, And I for sorrow sung, That such a king should play bo-peep, And go the fools among. Prithee, nuncle, keep a schoolmaster that can teach thy fool to lie; I would fain learn to lie.
LEAR. An you lie, sirrah, we’ll have you whipped.
FOOL. I marvel what kin thou and thy daughters are: they’ll have me whipped for speaking true; thou’lt have me whipped for lying; and sometimes I am whipped for holding my peace. I had rather be any kind o’thing than a fool: and yet I would not be thee, nuncle: thou hast pared thy wit o’both sides, and left nothing i’ the middle: here comes one o’ the parings.
Enter Goneril.
LEAR. How now, daughter? What makes that frontlet on? Methinks you are too much of late i’ the frown.
FOOL. Thou wast a pretty fellow when thou hadst no need to care for her frowning. Now thou art an O without a figure: I am better than thou art now. I am a fool, thou art nothing. [_To Goneril._] Yes, forsooth, I will hold my tongue. So your face bids me, though you say nothing. Mum, mum, He that keeps nor crust nor crum, Weary of all, shall want some. [_Pointing to Lear_.] That’s a shealed peascod.
GONERIL. Not only, sir, this your all-licens’d fool, But other of your insolent retinue Do hourly carp and quarrel; breaking forth In rank and not-to-be-endured riots. Sir, I had thought, by making this well known unto you, To have found a safe redress; but now grow fearful, By what yourself too late have spoke and done, That you protect this course, and put it on By your allowance; which if you should, the fault Would not scape censure, nor the redresses sleep, Which, in the tender of a wholesome weal, Might in their working do you that offence Which else were shame, that then necessity Will call discreet proceeding.
FOOL. For you know, nuncle, The hedge-sparrow fed the cuckoo so long That it’s had it head bit off by it young. So out went the candle, and we were left darkling.
LEAR. Are you our daughter?
GONERIL. Come, sir, I would you would make use of that good wisdom, Whereof I know you are fraught; and put away These dispositions, which of late transform you From what you rightly are.
FOOL. May not an ass know when the cart draws the horse? Whoop, Jug! I love thee!
LEAR. Doth any here know me? This is not Lear; Doth Lear walk thus? speak thus? Where are his eyes? Either his notion weakens, his discernings Are lethargied. Ha! waking? ’Tis not so! Who is it that can tell me who I am?
FOOL. Lear’s shadow.
LEAR. I would learn that; for by the marks of sovereignty, knowledge and reason, I should be false persuaded I had daughters.
FOOL. Which they will make an obedient father.
LEAR. Your name, fair gentlewoman?
GONERIL. This admiration, sir, is much o’ the favour Of other your new pranks. I do beseech you To understand my purposes aright: As you are old and reverend, you should be wise. Here do you keep a hundred knights and squires; Men so disorder’d, so debosh’d and bold That this our court, infected with their manners, Shows like a riotous inn. Epicurism and lust Makes it more like a tavern or a brothel Than a grac’d palace. The shame itself doth speak For instant remedy. Be, then, desir’d By her that else will take the thing she begs A little to disquantity your train; And the remainder that shall still depend, To be such men as may besort your age, Which know themselves, and you.
LEAR. Darkness and devils! Saddle my horses; call my train together. Degenerate bastard! I’ll not trouble thee: Yet have I left a daughter.
GONERIL. You strike my people; and your disorder’d rabble Make servants of their betters.
Enter Albany.
LEAR. Woe that too late repents!— [_To Albany._] O, sir, are you come? Is it your will? Speak, sir.—Prepare my horses. Ingratitude, thou marble-hearted fiend, More hideous when thou show’st thee in a child Than the sea-monster!
ALBANY. Pray, sir, be patient.
LEAR. [_to Goneril._] Detested kite, thou liest. My train are men of choice and rarest parts, That all particulars of duty know; And in the most exact regard support The worships of their name. O most small fault, How ugly didst thou in Cordelia show! Which, like an engine, wrench’d my frame of nature From the fix’d place; drew from my heart all love, And added to the gall. O Lear, Lear, Lear! [_Striking his head._] Beat at this gate that let thy folly in And thy dear judgement out! Go, go, my people.
ALBANY. My lord, I am guiltless, as I am ignorant Of what hath moved you.
LEAR. It may be so, my lord. Hear, nature, hear; dear goddess, hear! Suspend thy purpose, if thou didst intend To make this creature fruitful! Into her womb convey sterility! Dry up in her the organs of increase; And from her derogate body never spring A babe to honour her! If she must teem, Create her child of spleen, that it may live And be a thwart disnatur’d torment to her! Let it stamp wrinkles in her brow of youth; With cadent tears fret channels in her cheeks; Turn all her mother’s pains and benefits To laughter and contempt; that she may feel How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is To have a thankless child! Away, away!
[_Exit._]
ALBANY. Now, gods that we adore, whereof comes this?
GONERIL. Never afflict yourself to know more of it; But let his disposition have that scope That dotage gives it.
Re-enter Lear.
LEAR. What, fifty of my followers at a clap? Within a fortnight?
ALBANY. What’s the matter, sir?
LEAR. I’ll tell thee. [_To Goneril._] Life and death! I am asham’d That thou hast power to shake my manhood thus; That these hot tears, which break from me perforce, Should make thee worth them. Blasts and fogs upon thee! Th’untented woundings of a father’s curse Pierce every sense about thee! Old fond eyes, Beweep this cause again, I’ll pluck ye out, And cast you with the waters that you lose To temper clay. Ha! Let it be so. I have another daughter, Who, I am sure, is kind and comfortable: When she shall hear this of thee, with her nails She’ll flay thy wolvish visage. Thou shalt find That I’ll resume the shape which thou dost think I have cast off for ever.
[_Exeunt Lear, Kent and Attendants._]
GONERIL. Do you mark that?
ALBANY. I cannot be so partial, Goneril, To the great love I bear you,—
GONERIL. Pray you, content. What, Oswald, ho! [_To the Fool._] You, sir, more knave than fool, after your master.
FOOL. Nuncle Lear, nuncle Lear, tarry and take the fool with thee. A fox when one has caught her, And such a daughter, Should sure to the slaughter, If my cap would buy a halter; So the fool follows after.
[_Exit._]
GONERIL. This man hath had good counsel.—A hundred knights! ’Tis politic and safe to let him keep At point a hundred knights: yes, that on every dream, Each buzz, each fancy, each complaint, dislike, He may enguard his dotage with their powers, And hold our lives in mercy. Oswald, I say!
ALBANY. Well, you may fear too far.
GONERIL. Safer than trust too far: Let me still take away the harms I fear, Not fear still to be taken: I know his heart. What he hath utter’d I have writ my sister: If she sustain him and his hundred knights, When I have show’d th’unfitness,—
Re-enter Oswald.
How now, Oswald! What, have you writ that letter to my sister?
OSWALD. Ay, madam.
GONERIL. Take you some company, and away to horse: Inform her full of my particular fear; And thereto add such reasons of your own As may compact it more. Get you gone; And hasten your return.
[_Exit Oswald._]
No, no, my lord! This milky gentleness and course of yours, Though I condemn not, yet, under pardon, You are much more attask’d for want of wisdom Than prais’d for harmful mildness.
ALBANY. How far your eyes may pierce I cannot tell: Striving to better, oft we mar what’s well.
GONERIL. Nay then,—
ALBANY. Well, well; the event.
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE V. Court before the Duke of Albany’s Palace
Enter Lear, Kent and Fool.
LEAR. Go you before to Gloucester with these letters: acquaint my daughter no further with anything you know than comes from her demand out of the letter. If your diligence be not speedy, I shall be there afore you.
KENT. I will not sleep, my lord, till I have delivered your letter.
[_Exit._]
FOOL. If a man’s brains were in’s heels, were’t not in danger of kibes?
LEAR. Ay, boy.
FOOL. Then I prithee be merry; thy wit shall not go slipshod.
LEAR. Ha, ha, ha!
FOOL. Shalt see thy other daughter will use thee kindly, for though she’s as like this as a crab’s like an apple, yet I can tell what I can tell.
LEAR. What canst tell, boy?
FOOL. She’ll taste as like this as a crab does to a crab. Thou canst tell why one’s nose stands i’the middle on’s face?
LEAR. No.
FOOL. Why, to keep one’s eyes of either side’s nose, that what a man cannot smell out, he may spy into.
LEAR. I did her wrong.
FOOL. Canst tell how an oyster makes his shell?
LEAR. No.
FOOL. Nor I neither; but I can tell why a snail has a house.
LEAR. Why?
FOOL. Why, to put’s head in; not to give it away to his daughters, and leave his horns without a case.
LEAR. I will forget my nature. So kind a father! Be my horses ready?
FOOL. Thy asses are gone about ’em. The reason why the seven stars are no more than seven is a pretty reason.
LEAR. Because they are not eight?
FOOL. Yes indeed: thou wouldst make a good fool.
LEAR. To tak’t again perforce!—Monster ingratitude!
FOOL. If thou wert my fool, nuncle, I’d have thee beaten for being old before thy time.
LEAR. How’s that?
FOOL. Thou shouldst not have been old till thou hadst been wise.
LEAR. O, let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven! Keep me in temper; I would not be mad!
Enter Gentleman.
How now? are the horses ready?
GENTLEMAN. Ready, my lord.
LEAR. Come, boy.
FOOL. She that’s a maid now, and laughs at my departure, Shall not be a maid long, unless things be cut shorter.
[_Exeunt._]
ACT II
SCENE I. A court within the Castle of the Earl of Gloucester
Enter Edmund and Curan, meeting.
EDMUND. Save thee, Curan.
CURAN. 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.
EDMUND. How comes that?
CURAN. Nay, I know not. You have heard of the news abroad; I mean the whispered ones, for they are yet but ear-kissing arguments?
EDMUND. Not I: pray you, what are they?
CURAN. Have you heard of no likely wars toward, ’twixt the two dukes of Cornwall and Albany?
EDMUND. Not a word.
CURAN. You may do, then, in time. Fare you well, sir.
[_Exit._]
EDMUND. The Duke be here tonight? 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: O 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.
EDGAR. I am sure on’t, not a word.
EDMUND. 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.
GLOUCESTER. Now, Edmund, where’s the villain?
EDMUND. Here stood he in the dark, his sharp sword out, Mumbling of wicked charms, conjuring the moon To stand auspicious mistress.
GLOUCESTER. But where is he?
EDMUND. Look, sir, I bleed.
GLOUCESTER. Where is the villain, Edmund?
EDMUND. Fled this way, sir. When by no means he could,—
GLOUCESTER. Pursue him, ho! Go after.
[_Exeunt Servants._]
—By no means what?
EDMUND. 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, latch’d mine arm; But when he saw my best alarum’d spirits, Bold in the quarrel’s right, rous’d to th’encounter, Or whether gasted by the noise I made, Full suddenly he fled.
GLOUCESTER. 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 tonight: 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.
EDMUND. 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.
GLOUCESTER. O strange and fast’ned villain! Would he deny his letter, said he? I never got him.
[_Tucket 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.
CORNWALL. How now, my noble friend! since I came hither, Which I can call but now, I have heard strange news.
REGAN. If it be true, all vengeance comes too short Which can pursue th’offender. How dost, my lord?
GLOUCESTER. O madam, my old heart is crack’d, it’s crack’d!
REGAN. What, did my father’s godson seek your life? He whom my father nam’d? your Edgar?
GLOUCESTER. O lady, lady, shame would have it hid!
REGAN. Was he not companion with the riotous knights That tend upon my father?
GLOUCESTER. I know not, madam; ’tis too bad, too bad.
EDMUND. Yes, madam, he was of that consort.
REGAN. 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.
CORNWALL. Nor I, assure thee, Regan. Edmund, I hear that you have shown your father A childlike office.
EDMUND. It was my duty, sir.
GLOUCESTER. He did bewray his practice; and receiv’d This hurt you see, striving to apprehend him.
CORNWALL. Is he pursued?
GLOUCESTER. Ay, my good lord.
CORNWALL. 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.
EDMUND. I shall serve you, sir, truly, however else.
GLOUCESTER. For him I thank your grace.
CORNWALL. You know not why we came to visit you?
REGAN. 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 dispatch. Our good old friend, Lay comforts to your bosom; and bestow Your needful counsel to our business, Which craves the instant use.
GLOUCESTER. I serve you, madam: Your graces are right welcome.
[_Exeunt. Flourish._]
SCENE II. Before Gloucester’s Castle
Enter Kent and Oswald, severally.
OSWALD. Good dawning to thee, friend: art of this house?
KENT. Ay.
OSWALD. Where may we set our horses?
KENT. I’ the mire.
OSWALD. Prithee, if thou lov’st me, tell me.
KENT. I love thee not.
OSWALD. Why then, I care not for thee.
KENT. If I had thee in Lipsbury pinfold, I would make thee care for me.
OSWALD. Why dost thou use me thus? I know thee not.
KENT. Fellow, I know thee.
OSWALD. 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, super-serviceable, 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 deniest the least syllable of thy addition.
OSWALD. 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 tripped up thy heels and beat thee 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 barber-monger, draw!
[_Drawing his sword._]
OSWALD. 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!
OSWALD. Help, ho! murder! help!
KENT. Strike, you slave; stand, rogue, stand; you neat slave, strike!
[_Beating him._]
OSWALD. Help, ho! murder! murder!
Enter Edmund, Cornwall, Regan, Gloucester and Servants.
EDMUND. How now! What’s the matter? Part!
KENT. With you, goodman boy, if you please: come, I’ll flesh ye; come on, young master.
GLOUCESTER. Weapons! arms! What’s the matter here?
CORNWALL. Keep peace, upon your lives, he dies that strikes again. What is the matter?
REGAN. The messengers from our sister and the King.
CORNWALL. What is your difference? Speak.
OSWALD. 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.
CORNWALL. 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 years at the trade.
CORNWALL. Speak yet, how grew your quarrel?
OSWALD. 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?
CORNWALL. Peace, sirrah! You beastly knave, know you no reverence?
KENT. Yes, sir; but anger hath a privilege.
CORNWALL. 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 intrince 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, if I had you upon Sarum plain, I’d drive ye cackling home to Camelot.
CORNWALL. What, art thou mad, old fellow?
GLOUCESTER. How fell you out? Say that.
KENT. No contraries hold more antipathy Than I and such a knave.
CORNWALL. Why dost thou call him knave? What is his fault?
KENT. His countenance likes me not.
CORNWALL. 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.
CORNWALL. 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 th’allowance of your great aspect, Whose influence, like the wreath of radiant fire On flickering Phoebus’ front,—
CORNWALL. 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.
CORNWALL. What was the offence you gave him?
OSWALD. 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.
CORNWALL. 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.
CORNWALL. Fetch forth the stocks! As I have life and honour, there shall he sit till noon.
REGAN. 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.
REGAN. Sir, being his knave, I will.
[_Stocks brought out._]
CORNWALL. This is a fellow of the selfsame colour Our sister speaks of. Come, bring away the stocks!
GLOUCESTER. 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 valued in his messenger, Should have him thus restrained.
CORNWALL. I’ll answer that.
REGAN. 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._]
CORNWALL. Come, my good lord, away.
[_Exeunt all but Gloucester and Kent._]
GLOUCESTER. 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!
GLOUCESTER. 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
Enter Edgar.
EDGAR. 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
Enter Lear, Fool and Gentleman.
LEAR. ’Tis strange that they should so depart from home, And not send back my messenger.
GENTLEMAN. 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 heads; dogs and bears by the neck, monkeys by the loins, and men by the legs: when a man is overlusty 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. No, no; they would not.
KENT. Yes, they have.
LEAR. By Jupiter, I swear no.
KENT. By Juno, I swear ay.
LEAR. They durst not do’t. They could not, would 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 those 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._]
GENTLEMAN. 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 i’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 upward, 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.
Enter Lear and 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.
GLOUCESTER. 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.
GLOUCESTER. Well, my good lord, I have inform’d them so.
LEAR. Inform’d them! Dost thou understand me, man?
GLOUCESTER. Ay, my good lord.
LEAR. The King would speak with Cornwall; the dear father Would with his daughter speak, commands, tends, service, Are they inform’d of this? My breath and blood! Fiery? The fiery Duke, tell the hot Duke that— No, but not yet: maybe 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. [_Looking on Kent._] Death on my state! Wherefore 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.
GLOUCESTER. 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.
CORNWALL. Hail to your grace!
[_Kent here set at liberty._]
REGAN. 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!
REGAN. 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?
REGAN. 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.
REGAN. 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.’
REGAN. 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!
CORNWALL. 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!
REGAN. 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.
REGAN. Good sir, to the purpose.
LEAR. Who put my man i’ the stocks?
[_Tucket within._]
CORNWALL. What trumpet’s that?
REGAN. 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!
CORNWALL. 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?
GONERIL. 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?
CORNWALL. I set him there, sir: but his own disorders Deserv’d much less advancement.
LEAR. You? Did you?
REGAN. 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._]
GONERIL. At your choice, sir.
LEAR. I prithee, 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, or 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.
REGAN. 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?
REGAN. 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.
GONERIL. Why might not you, my lord, receive attendance From those that she calls servants, or from mine?
REGAN. Why not, my lord? If then they chanc’d to slack ye, 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,—
REGAN. And in good time you gave it.
LEAR. Made you my guardians, my depositaries; But kept a reservation to be followed With such a number. What, must I come to you With five-and-twenty, Regan, said you so?
REGAN. 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.
GONERIL. 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?
REGAN. 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:— [_Storm and tempest._] 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._]
CORNWALL. Let us withdraw; ’twill be a storm.
REGAN. This house is little: the old man and his people Cannot be well bestow’d.
GONERIL. ’Tis his own blame; hath put himself from rest And must needs taste his folly.
REGAN. For his particular, I’ll receive him gladly, But not one follower.
GONERIL. So am I purpos’d. Where is my lord of Gloucester?
Enter Gloucester.
CORNWALL. Followed the old man forth, he is return’d.
GLOUCESTER. The King is in high rage.
CORNWALL. Whither is he going?
GLOUCESTER. He calls to horse; but will I know not whither.
CORNWALL. ’Tis best to give him way; he leads himself.
GONERIL. My lord, entreat him by no means to stay.
GLOUCESTER. Alack, the night comes on, and the high winds Do sorely ruffle; for many miles about There’s scarce a bush.
REGAN. 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.
CORNWALL. Shut up your doors, my lord; ’tis a wild night. My Regan counsels well: come out o’ the storm.
[_Exeunt._]
ACT III
SCENE I. A Heath
A storm with thunder and lightning. Enter Kent and a Gentleman, severally.
KENT. Who’s there, besides foul weather?
GENTLEMAN. One minded like the weather, most unquietly.
KENT. I know you. Where’s the King?
GENTLEMAN. Contending with the fretful elements; Bids the wind blow the earth into the sea, Or swell the curled waters ’bove the main, That things might change or cease; tears his white hair, Which the impetuous blasts with eyeless rage, Catch in their fury and make nothing of; Strives in his little world of man to outscorn The to-and-fro-conflicting wind and rain. This night, wherein the cub-drawn bear would couch, The lion and the belly-pinched wolf Keep their fur dry, unbonneted he runs, And bids what will take all.
KENT. But who is with him?
GENTLEMAN. None but the fool, who labours to out-jest His heart-struck injuries.
KENT. Sir, I do know you; And dare, upon the warrant of my note Commend a dear thing to you. There is division, Although as yet the face of it be cover’d With mutual cunning, ’twixt Albany and Cornwall; Who have, as who have not, that their great stars Throne’d and set high; servants, who seem no less, Which are to France the spies and speculations Intelligent of our state. What hath been seen, Either in snuffs and packings of the Dukes; Or the hard rein which both of them have borne Against the old kind King; or something deeper, Whereof, perchance, these are but furnishings;— But, true it is, from France there comes a power Into this scatter’d kingdom; who already, Wise in our negligence, have secret feet In some of our best ports, and are at point To show their open banner.—Now to you: If on my credit you dare build so far To make your speed to Dover, you shall find Some that will thank you making just report Of how unnatural and bemadding sorrow The King hath cause to plain. I am a gentleman of blood and breeding; And from some knowledge and assurance Offer this office to you.
GENTLEMAN. I will talk further with you.
KENT. No, do not. For confirmation that I am much more Than my out-wall, open this purse, and take What it contains. If you shall see Cordelia, As fear not but you shall, show her this ring; And she will tell you who your fellow is That yet you do not know. Fie on this storm! I will go seek the King.
GENTLEMAN. Give me your hand: have you no more to say?
KENT. Few words, but, to effect, more than all yet: That, when we have found the King, in which your pain That way, I’ll this; he that first lights on him Holla the other.
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE II. Another part of the heath
Storm continues. Enter Lear and Fool.
LEAR. Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! Rage! blow! You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout Till you have drench’d our steeples, drown’d the cocks! You sulphurous and thought-executing fires, Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts, Singe my white head! And thou, all-shaking thunder, Strike flat the thick rotundity o’ the world! Crack nature’s moulds, all germens spill at once, That make ingrateful man!
FOOL. O nuncle, court holy-water in a dry house is better than this rain-water out o’ door. Good nuncle, in; and ask thy daughters blessing: here’s a night pities neither wise men nor fools.
LEAR. Rumble thy bellyful! Spit, fire! spout, rain! Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire are my daughters; I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness. I never gave you kingdom, call’d you children; You owe me no subscription: then let fall Your horrible pleasure. Here I stand your slave, A poor, infirm, weak, and despis’d old man: But yet I call you servile ministers, That will with two pernicious daughters join Your high-engender’d battles ’gainst a head So old and white as this! O! O! ’tis foul!
FOOL. He that has a house to put’s head in has a good head-piece. The codpiece that will house Before the head has any, The head and he shall louse: So beggars marry many. The man that makes his toe What he his heart should make Shall of a corn cry woe, And turn his sleep to wake. For there was never yet fair woman but she made mouths in a glass.
LEAR. No, I will be the pattern of all patience; I will say nothing.
Enter Kent.
KENT. Who’s there?
FOOL. Marry, here’s grace and a codpiece; that’s a wise man and a fool.
KENT. Alas, sir, are you here? Things that love night Love not such nights as these; the wrathful skies Gallow the very wanderers of the dark, And make them keep their caves. Since I was man, Such sheets of fire, such bursts of horrid thunder, Such groans of roaring wind and rain I never Remember to have heard. Man’s nature cannot carry Th’affliction, nor the fear.
LEAR. Let the great gods, That keep this dreadful pudder o’er our heads, Find out their enemies now. Tremble, thou wretch, That hast within thee undivulged crimes Unwhipp’d of justice. Hide thee, thou bloody hand; Thou perjur’d, and thou simular of virtue That art incestuous. Caitiff, to pieces shake That under covert and convenient seeming Hast practis’d on man’s life: close pent-up guilts, Rive your concealing continents, and cry These dreadful summoners grace. I am a man More sinn’d against than sinning.
KENT. Alack, bareheaded! Gracious my lord, hard by here is a hovel; Some friendship will it lend you ’gainst the tempest: Repose you there, whilst I to this hard house,— More harder than the stones whereof ’tis rais’d; Which even but now, demanding after you, Denied me to come in,—return, and force Their scanted courtesy.
LEAR. My wits begin to turn. Come on, my boy. How dost, my boy? Art cold? I am cold myself. Where is this straw, my fellow? The art of our necessities is strange, That can make vile things precious. Come, your hovel. Poor fool and knave, I have one part in my heart That’s sorry yet for thee.
FOOL. [_Singing._] He that has and a little tiny wit, With heigh-ho, the wind and the rain, Must make content with his fortunes fit, Though the rain it raineth every day.
LEAR. True, boy. Come, bring us to this hovel.
[_Exeunt Lear and Kent._]
FOOL. This is a brave night to cool a courtezan. I’ll speak a prophecy ere I go: When priests are more in word than matter; When brewers mar their malt with water; When nobles are their tailors’ tutors; No heretics burn’d, but wenches’ suitors; When every case in law is right; No squire in debt, nor no poor knight; When slanders do not live in tongues; Nor cut-purses come not to throngs; When usurers tell their gold i’ the field; And bawds and whores do churches build, Then shall the realm of Albion Come to great confusion: Then comes the time, who lives to see’t, That going shall be us’d with feet. This prophecy Merlin shall make; for I live before his time.
[_Exit._]
SCENE III. A Room in Gloucester’s Castle
Enter Gloucester and Edmund.
GLOUCESTER. Alack, alack, Edmund, I like not this unnatural dealing. When I desired their leave that I might pity him, they took from me the use of mine own house; charged me on pain of perpetual displeasure, neither to speak of him, entreat for him, or any way sustain him.
EDMUND. Most savage and unnatural!
GLOUCESTER. Go to; say you nothing. There is division between the Dukes, and a worse matter than that: I have received a letter this night;—’tis dangerous to be spoken;—I have locked the letter in my closet: these injuries the King now bears will be revenged home; there’s part of a power already footed: we must incline to the King. I will look him, and privily relieve him: go you and maintain talk with the Duke, that my charity be not of him perceived: if he ask for me, I am ill, and gone to bed. If I die for it, as no less is threatened me, the King my old master must be relieved. There is some strange thing toward, Edmund; pray you be careful.
[_Exit._]
EDMUND. This courtesy, forbid thee, shall the Duke Instantly know; and of that letter too. This seems a fair deserving, and must draw me That which my father loses, no less than all: The younger rises when the old doth fall.
[_Exit._]
SCENE IV. A part of the Heath with a Hovel
Storm continues. Enter Lear, Kent and Fool.
KENT. Here is the place, my lord; good my lord, enter: The tyranny of the open night’s too rough For nature to endure.
LEAR. Let me alone.
KENT. Good my lord, enter here.
LEAR. Wilt break my heart?
KENT. I had rather break mine own. Good my lord, enter.
LEAR. Thou think’st ’tis much that this contentious storm Invades us to the skin: so ’tis to thee, But where the greater malady is fix’d, The lesser is scarce felt. Thou’dst shun a bear; But if thy flight lay toward the raging sea, Thou’dst meet the bear i’ the mouth. When the mind’s free, The body’s delicate: the tempest in my mind Doth from my senses take all feeling else Save what beats there. Filial ingratitude! Is it not as this mouth should tear this hand For lifting food to’t? But I will punish home; No, I will weep no more. In such a night To shut me out! Pour on; I will endure: In such a night as this! O Regan, Goneril! Your old kind father, whose frank heart gave all, O, that way madness lies; let me shun that; No more of that.
KENT. Good my lord, enter here.
LEAR. Prithee go in thyself; seek thine own ease: This tempest will not give me leave to ponder On things would hurt me more. But I’ll go in. [_To the Fool._] In, boy; go first. You houseless poverty, Nay, get thee in. I’ll pray, and then I’ll sleep.
[_Fool goes in._]
Poor naked wretches, wheresoe’er you are, That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm, How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides, Your loop’d and window’d raggedness, defend you From seasons such as these? O, I have ta’en Too little care of this! Take physic, pomp; Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel, That thou mayst shake the superflux to them And show the heavens more just.
EDGAR. [_Within._] Fathom and half, fathom and half! Poor Tom!
[_The Fool runs out from the hovel._]
FOOL. Come not in here, nuncle, here’s a spirit. Help me, help me!
KENT. Give me thy hand. Who’s there?
FOOL. A spirit, a spirit: he says his name’s poor Tom.
KENT. What art thou that dost grumble there i’ the straw? Come forth.
Enter Edgar, disguised as a madman.
EDGAR. Away! the foul fiend follows me! Through the sharp hawthorn blows the cold wind. Humh! go to thy cold bed, and warm thee.
LEAR. Didst thou give all to thy two daughters? And art thou come to this?
EDGAR. Who gives anything to poor Tom? Whom the foul fiend hath led through fire and through flame, through ford and whirlpool, o’er bog and quagmire; that hath laid knives under his pillow and halters in his pew, set ratsbane by his porridge; made him proud of heart, to ride on a bay trotting horse over four-inched bridges, to course his own shadow for a traitor. Bless thy five wits! Tom’s a-cold. O, do, de, do, de, do, de. Bless thee from whirlwinds, star-blasting, and taking! Do poor Tom some charity, whom the foul fiend vexes. There could I have him now, and there,—and there again, and there.
[_Storm continues._]
LEAR. What, have his daughters brought him to this pass? Couldst thou save nothing? Didst thou give ’em all?
FOOL. Nay, he reserv’d a blanket, else we had been all shamed.
LEAR. Now all the plagues that in the pendulous air Hang fated o’er men’s faults light on thy daughters!
KENT. He hath no daughters, sir.
LEAR. Death, traitor! nothing could have subdu’d nature To such a lowness but his unkind daughters. Is it the fashion that discarded fathers Should have thus little mercy on their flesh? Judicious punishment! ’twas this flesh begot Those pelican daughters.
EDGAR. Pillicock sat on Pillicock hill, Alow, alow, loo loo!
FOOL. This cold night will turn us all to fools and madmen.
EDGAR. Take heed o’ th’ foul fiend: obey thy parents; keep thy word justly; swear not; commit not with man’s sworn spouse; set not thy sweet-heart on proud array. Tom’s a-cold.
LEAR. What hast thou been?
EDGAR. A serving-man, proud in heart and mind; that curled my hair; wore gloves in my cap; served the lust of my mistress’ heart, and did the act of darkness with her; swore as many oaths as I spake words, and broke them in the sweet face of heaven. One that slept in the contriving of lust, and waked to do it. Wine loved I deeply, dice dearly; and in woman out-paramour’d the Turk. False of heart, light of ear, bloody of hand; hog in sloth, fox in stealth, wolf in greediness, dog in madness, lion in prey. Let not the creaking of shoes nor the rustling of silks betray thy poor heart to woman. Keep thy foot out of brothels, thy hand out of plackets, thy pen from lender’s book, and defy the foul fiend. Still through the hawthorn blows the cold wind: says suum, mun, nonny. Dolphin my boy, boy, sessa! let him trot by.
[_Storm still continues._]
LEAR. Why, thou wert better in thy grave than to answer with thy uncovered body this extremity of the skies. Is man no more than this? Consider him well. Thou owest the worm no silk, the beast no hide, the sheep no wool, the cat no perfume. Ha! here’s three on’s are sophisticated! Thou art the thing itself: unaccommodated man is no more but such a poor, bare, forked animal as thou art. Off, off, you lendings! Come, unbutton here.
[_Tears off his clothes._]
FOOL. Prithee, nuncle, be contented; ’tis a naughty night to swim in. Now a little fire in a wild field were like an old lecher’s heart, a small spark, all the rest on’s body cold. Look, here comes a walking fire.
EDGAR. This is the foul fiend Flibbertigibbet: he begins at curfew, and walks till the first cock; he gives the web and the pin, squints the eye, and makes the harelip; mildews the white wheat, and hurts the poor creature of earth. Swithold footed thrice the old; He met the nightmare, and her nine-fold; Bid her alight and her troth plight, And aroint thee, witch, aroint thee!
KENT. How fares your grace?
Enter Gloucester with a torch.
LEAR. What’s he?
KENT. Who’s there? What is’t you seek?
GLOUCESTER. What are you there? Your names?
EDGAR. Poor Tom; that eats the swimming frog, the toad, the todpole, the wall-newt and the water; that in the fury of his heart, when the foul fiend rages, eats cow-dung for sallets; swallows the old rat and the ditch-dog; drinks the green mantle of the standing pool; who is whipped from tithing to tithing, and stocked, punished, and imprisoned; who hath had three suits to his back, six shirts to his body, Horse to ride, and weapon to wear. But mice and rats and such small deer, Have been Tom’s food for seven long year. Beware my follower. Peace, Smulkin; peace, thou fiend!
GLOUCESTER. What, hath your grace no better company?
EDGAR. The prince of darkness is a gentleman: Modo he’s call’d, and Mahu.
GLOUCESTER. Our flesh and blood, my lord, is grown so vile That it doth hate what gets it.
EDGAR. Poor Tom’s a-cold.
GLOUCESTER. Go in with me: my duty cannot suffer T’obey in all your daughters’ hard commands; Though their injunction be to bar my doors, And let this tyrannous night take hold upon you, Yet have I ventur’d to come seek you out, And bring you where both fire and food is ready.
LEAR. First let me talk with this philosopher. What is the cause of thunder?
KENT. Good my lord, take his offer; go into the house.
LEAR. I’ll talk a word with this same learned Theban. What is your study?
EDGAR. How to prevent the fiend and to kill vermin.
LEAR. Let me ask you one word in private.
KENT. Importune him once more to go, my lord; His wits begin t’unsettle.
GLOUCESTER. Canst thou blame him? His daughters seek his death. Ah, that good Kent! He said it would be thus, poor banish’d man! Thou sayest the King grows mad; I’ll tell thee, friend, I am almost mad myself. I had a son, Now outlaw’d from my blood; he sought my life But lately, very late: I lov’d him, friend, No father his son dearer: true to tell thee,
[_Storm continues._]
The grief hath craz’d my wits. What a night’s this! I do beseech your grace.
LEAR. O, cry you mercy, sir. Noble philosopher, your company.
EDGAR. Tom’s a-cold.
GLOUCESTER. In, fellow, there, into the hovel; keep thee warm.
LEAR. Come, let’s in all.
KENT. This way, my lord.
LEAR. With him; I will keep still with my philosopher.
KENT. Good my lord, soothe him; let him take the fellow.
GLOUCESTER. Take him you on.
KENT. Sirrah, come on; go along with us.
LEAR. Come, good Athenian.
GLOUCESTER. No words, no words, hush.
EDGAR. Child Rowland to the dark tower came, His word was still—Fie, foh, and fum, I smell the blood of a British man.
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE V. A Room in Gloucester’s Castle
Enter Cornwall and Edmund.
CORNWALL. I will have my revenge ere I depart his house.
EDMUND. How, my lord, I may be censured, that nature thus gives way to loyalty, something fears me to think of.
CORNWALL. I now perceive it was not altogether your brother’s evil disposition made him seek his death; but a provoking merit, set a-work by a reproveable badness in himself.
EDMUND. How malicious is my fortune, that I must repent to be just! This is the letter he spoke of, which approves him an intelligent party to the advantages of France. O heavens! that this treason were not; or not I the detector!
CORNWALL. Go with me to the Duchess.
EDMUND. If the matter of this paper be certain, you have mighty business in hand.
CORNWALL. True or false, it hath made thee Earl of Gloucester. Seek out where thy father is, that he may be ready for our apprehension.
EDMUND. [_Aside._] If I find him comforting the King, it will stuff his suspicion more fully. I will persever in my course of loyalty, though the conflict be sore between that and my blood.
CORNWALL. I will lay trust upon thee; and thou shalt find a dearer father in my love.
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE VI. A Chamber in a Farmhouse adjoining the Castle
Enter Gloucester, Lear, Kent, Fool and Edgar.
GLOUCESTER. Here is better than the open air; take it thankfully. I will piece out the comfort with what addition I can: I will not be long from you.
KENT. All the power of his wits have given way to his impatience:— the gods reward your kindness!
[_Exit Gloucester._]
EDGAR. Frateretto calls me; and tells me Nero is an angler in the lake of darkness. Pray, innocent, and beware the foul fiend.
FOOL. Prithee, nuncle, tell me whether a madman be a gentleman or a yeoman.
LEAR. A king, a king!
FOOL. No, he’s a yeoman that has a gentleman to his son; for he’s a mad yeoman that sees his son a gentleman before him.
LEAR. To have a thousand with red burning spits Come hissing in upon ’em.
EDGAR. The foul fiend bites my back.
FOOL. He’s mad that trusts in the tameness of a wolf, a horse’s health, a boy’s love, or a whore’s oath.
LEAR. It shall be done; I will arraign them straight. [_To Edgar._] Come, sit thou here, most learned justicer; [_To the Fool._] Thou, sapient sir, sit here. Now, you she-foxes!—
EDGAR. Look, where he stands and glares! Want’st thou eyes at trial, madam? Come o’er the bourn, Bessy, to me.
FOOL. Her boat hath a leak, And she must not speak Why she dares not come over to thee.
EDGAR. The foul fiend haunts poor Tom in the voice of a nightingale. Hoppedance cries in Tom’s belly for two white herring. Croak not, black angel; I have no food for thee.
KENT. How do you, sir? Stand you not so amaz’d; Will you lie down and rest upon the cushions?
LEAR. I’ll see their trial first. Bring in their evidence. [_To Edgar._] Thou, robed man of justice, take thy place. [_To the Fool._] And thou, his yokefellow of equity, Bench by his side. [_To Kent._] You are o’ the commission, Sit you too.
EDGAR. Let us deal justly. Sleepest or wakest thou, jolly shepherd? Thy sheep be in the corn; And for one blast of thy minikin mouth Thy sheep shall take no harm. Purr! the cat is grey.
LEAR. Arraign her first; ’tis Goneril. I here take my oath before this honourable assembly, she kicked the poor King her father.
FOOL. Come hither, mistress. Is your name Goneril?
LEAR. She cannot deny it.
FOOL. Cry you mercy, I took you for a joint-stool.
LEAR. And here’s another, whose warp’d looks proclaim What store her heart is made on. Stop her there! Arms, arms! sword! fire! Corruption in the place! False justicer, why hast thou let her ’scape?
EDGAR. Bless thy five wits!
KENT. O pity! Sir, where is the patience now That you so oft have boasted to retain?
EDGAR. [_Aside._] My tears begin to take his part so much They mar my counterfeiting.
LEAR. The little dogs and all, Trey, Blanch, and Sweetheart, see, they bark at me.
EDGAR. Tom will throw his head at them. Avaunt, you curs! Be thy mouth or black or white, Tooth that poisons if it bite; Mastiff, greyhound, mongrel grim, Hound or spaniel, brach or him, Or bobtail tike or trundle-tail, Tom will make them weep and wail; For, with throwing thus my head, Dogs leap the hatch, and all are fled. Do, de, de, de. Sessa! Come, march to wakes and fairs and market towns. Poor Tom, thy horn is dry.
LEAR. Then let them anatomize Regan; see what breeds about her heart. Is there any cause in nature that makes these hard hearts? [_To Edgar._] You, sir, I entertain you for one of my hundred; only I do not like the fashion of your garments. You’ll say they are Persian; but let them be changed.
KENT. Now, good my lord, lie here and rest awhile.
LEAR. Make no noise, make no noise; draw the curtains. So, so. We’ll go to supper i’ the morning.
FOOL. And I’ll go to bed at noon.
Enter Gloucester.
GLOUCESTER. Come hither, friend; Where is the King my master?
KENT. Here, sir; but trouble him not, his wits are gone.
GLOUCESTER. Good friend, I prithee, take him in thy arms; I have o’erheard a plot of death upon him; There is a litter ready; lay him in’t And drive towards Dover, friend, where thou shalt meet Both welcome and protection. Take up thy master; If thou shouldst dally half an hour, his life, With thine, and all that offer to defend him, Stand in assured loss. Take up, take up; And follow me, that will to some provision Give thee quick conduct.
KENT. Oppressed nature sleeps. This rest might yet have balm’d thy broken sinews, Which, if convenience will not allow, Stand in hard cure. Come, help to bear thy master; [_To the Fool._] Thou must not stay behind.
GLOUCESTER. Come, come, away!
[_Exeunt Kent, Gloucester and the Fool bearing off Lear._]
EDGAR. When we our betters see bearing our woes, We scarcely think our miseries our foes. Who alone suffers, suffers most i’ the mind, Leaving free things and happy shows behind: But then the mind much sufferance doth o’erskip When grief hath mates, and bearing fellowship. How light and portable my pain seems now, When that which makes me bend makes the King bow; He childed as I fathered! Tom, away! Mark the high noises; and thyself bewray, When false opinion, whose wrong thoughts defile thee, In thy just proof repeals and reconciles thee. What will hap more tonight, safe ’scape the King! Lurk, lurk.
[_Exit._]
SCENE VII. A Room in Gloucester’s Castle
Enter Cornwall, Regan, Goneril, Edmund and Servants.
CORNWALL. Post speedily to my lord your husband, show him this letter: the army of France is landed. Seek out the traitor Gloucester.
[_Exeunt some of the Servants._]
REGAN. Hang him instantly.
GONERIL. Pluck out his eyes.
CORNWALL. Leave him to my displeasure. Edmund, keep you our sister company: the revenges we are bound to take upon your traitorous father are not fit for your beholding. Advise the Duke where you are going, to a most festinate preparation: we are bound to the like. Our posts shall be swift and intelligent betwixt us. Farewell, dear sister, farewell, my lord of Gloucester.
Enter Oswald.
How now! Where’s the King?
OSWALD. My lord of Gloucester hath convey’d him hence: Some five or six and thirty of his knights, Hot questrists after him, met him at gate; Who, with some other of the lord’s dependants, Are gone with him toward Dover: where they boast To have well-armed friends.
CORNWALL. Get horses for your mistress.
GONERIL. Farewell, sweet lord, and sister.
CORNWALL. Edmund, farewell.
[_Exeunt Goneril, Edmund and Oswald._]
Go seek the traitor Gloucester, Pinion him like a thief, bring him before us.
[_Exeunt other Servants._]
Though well we may not pass upon his life Without the form of justice, yet our power Shall do a courtesy to our wrath, which men May blame, but not control. Who’s there? The traitor?
Enter Gloucester and Servants.
REGAN. Ingrateful fox! ’tis he.
CORNWALL. Bind fast his corky arms.
GLOUCESTER. What mean your graces? Good my friends, consider you are my guests. Do me no foul play, friends.
CORNWALL. Bind him, I say.
[_Servants bind him._]
REGAN. Hard, hard. O filthy traitor!
GLOUCESTER. Unmerciful lady as you are, I’m none.
CORNWALL. To this chair bind him. Villain, thou shalt find—
[_Regan plucks his beard._]
GLOUCESTER. By the kind gods, ’tis most ignobly done To pluck me by the beard.
REGAN. So white, and such a traitor!
GLOUCESTER. Naughty lady, These hairs which thou dost ravish from my chin Will quicken, and accuse thee. I am your host: With robber’s hands my hospitable favours You should not ruffle thus. What will you do?
CORNWALL. Come, sir, what letters had you late from France?
REGAN. Be simple answer’d, for we know the truth.
CORNWALL. And what confederacy have you with the traitors, Late footed in the kingdom?
REGAN. To whose hands have you sent the lunatic King? Speak.
GLOUCESTER. I have a letter guessingly set down, Which came from one that’s of a neutral heart, And not from one oppos’d.
CORNWALL. Cunning.
REGAN. And false.
CORNWALL. Where hast thou sent the King?
GLOUCESTER. To Dover.
REGAN. Wherefore to Dover? Wast thou not charg’d at peril,—
CORNWALL. Wherefore to Dover? Let him first answer that.
GLOUCESTER. I am tied to the stake, and I must stand the course.
REGAN. Wherefore to Dover, sir?
GLOUCESTER. Because I would not see thy cruel nails Pluck out his poor old eyes; nor thy fierce sister In his anointed flesh stick boarish fangs. The sea, with such a storm as his bare head In hell-black night endur’d, would have buoy’d up, And quench’d the stelled fires; Yet, poor old heart, he holp the heavens to rain. If wolves had at thy gate howl’d that stern time, Thou shouldst have said, ‘Good porter, turn the key.’ All cruels else subscrib’d: but I shall see The winged vengeance overtake such children.
CORNWALL. See’t shalt thou never. Fellows, hold the chair. Upon these eyes of thine I’ll set my foot.
[_Gloucester is held down in his chair, while Cornwall plucks out one of his eyes and sets his foot on it._]
GLOUCESTER. He that will think to live till he be old, Give me some help!—O cruel! O you gods!
REGAN. One side will mock another; the other too!
CORNWALL. If you see vengeance—
FIRST SERVANT. Hold your hand, my lord: I have serv’d you ever since I was a child; But better service have I never done you Than now to bid you hold.
REGAN. How now, you dog!
FIRST SERVANT. If you did wear a beard upon your chin, I’d shake it on this quarrel. What do you mean?
CORNWALL. My villain?
[_Draws, and runs at him._]
FIRST SERVANT. Nay, then, come on, and take the chance of anger.
[_Draws. They fight. Cornwall is wounded._]
REGAN. [_To another servant._] Give me thy sword. A peasant stand up thus?
[_Snatches a sword, comes behind, and stabs him._]
FIRST SERVANT. O, I am slain! My lord, you have one eye left To see some mischief on him. O!
[_Dies._]
CORNWALL. Lest it see more, prevent it. Out, vile jelly! Where is thy lustre now?
[_Tears out Gloucester’s other eye and throws it on the ground._]
GLOUCESTER. All dark and comfortless. Where’s my son Edmund? Edmund, enkindle all the sparks of nature To quit this horrid act.
REGAN. Out, treacherous villain! Thou call’st on him that hates thee: it was he That made the overture of thy treasons to us; Who is too good to pity thee.
GLOUCESTER. O my follies! Then Edgar was abus’d. Kind gods, forgive me that, and prosper him!
REGAN. Go thrust him out at gates, and let him smell His way to Dover. How is’t, my lord? How look you?
CORNWALL. I have receiv’d a hurt: follow me, lady. Turn out that eyeless villain. Throw this slave Upon the dunghill. Regan, I bleed apace: Untimely comes this hurt: give me your arm.
[_Exit Cornwall, led by Regan; Servants unbind Gloucester and lead him out._]
SECOND SERVANT. I’ll never care what wickedness I do, If this man come to good.
THIRD SERVANT. If she live long, And in the end meet the old course of death, Women will all turn monsters.
SECOND SERVANT. Let’s follow the old Earl, and get the bedlam To lead him where he would: his roguish madness Allows itself to anything.
THIRD SERVANT. Go thou: I’ll fetch some flax and whites of eggs To apply to his bleeding face. Now heaven help him!
[_Exeunt._]
ACT IV
SCENE I. The heath
Enter Edgar.
EDGAR. Yet better thus, and known to be contemn’d, Than still contemn’d and flatter’d. To be worst, The lowest and most dejected thing of fortune, Stands still in esperance, lives not in fear: The lamentable change is from the best; The worst returns to laughter. Welcome then, Thou unsubstantial air that I embrace; The wretch that thou hast blown unto the worst Owes nothing to thy blasts.
Enter Gloucester, led by an Old Man.
But who comes here? My father, poorly led? World, world, O world! But that thy strange mutations make us hate thee, Life would not yield to age.
OLD MAN. O my good lord, I have been your tenant, and your father’s tenant these fourscore years.
GLOUCESTER. Away, get thee away; good friend, be gone. Thy comforts can do me no good at all; Thee they may hurt.
OLD MAN. You cannot see your way.
GLOUCESTER. I have no way, and therefore want no eyes; I stumbled when I saw. Full oft ’tis seen Our means secure us, and our mere defects Prove our commodities. O dear son Edgar, The food of thy abused father’s wrath! Might I but live to see thee in my touch, I’d say I had eyes again!
OLD MAN. How now! Who’s there?
EDGAR. [_Aside._] O gods! Who is’t can say ‘I am at the worst’? I am worse than e’er I was.
OLD MAN. ’Tis poor mad Tom.
EDGAR. [_Aside._] And worse I may be yet. The worst is not So long as we can say ‘This is the worst.’
OLD MAN. Fellow, where goest?
GLOUCESTER. Is it a beggar-man?
OLD MAN. Madman, and beggar too.
GLOUCESTER. He has some reason, else he could not beg. I’ the last night’s storm I such a fellow saw; Which made me think a man a worm. My son Came then into my mind, and yet my mind Was then scarce friends with him. I have heard more since. As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods, They kill us for their sport.
EDGAR. [_Aside._] How should this be? Bad is the trade that must play fool to sorrow, Angering itself and others. Bless thee, master!
GLOUCESTER. Is that the naked fellow?
OLD MAN. Ay, my lord.
GLOUCESTER. Then prithee get thee away. If for my sake Thou wilt o’ertake us hence a mile or twain, I’ the way toward Dover, do it for ancient love, And bring some covering for this naked soul, Which I’ll entreat to lead me.
OLD MAN. Alack, sir, he is mad.
GLOUCESTER. ’Tis the time’s plague when madmen lead the blind. Do as I bid thee, or rather do thy pleasure; Above the rest, be gone.
OLD MAN. I’ll bring him the best ’parel that I have, Come on’t what will.
[_Exit._]
GLOUCESTER. Sirrah naked fellow.
EDGAR. Poor Tom’s a-cold. [_Aside._] I cannot daub it further.
GLOUCESTER. Come hither, fellow.
EDGAR. [_Aside._] And yet I must. Bless thy sweet eyes, they bleed.
GLOUCESTER. Know’st thou the way to Dover?
EDGAR. Both stile and gate, horseway and footpath. Poor Tom hath been scared out of his good wits. Bless thee, good man’s son, from the foul fiend! Five fiends have been in poor Tom at once; of lust, as Obidicut; Hobbididence, prince of darkness; Mahu, of stealing; Modo, of murder; Flibbertigibbet, of mopping and mowing, who since possesses chambermaids and waiting women. So, bless thee, master!
GLOUCESTER. Here, take this purse, thou whom the heaven’s plagues Have humbled to all strokes: that I am wretched Makes thee the happier. Heavens deal so still! Let the superfluous and lust-dieted man, That slaves your ordinance, that will not see Because he does not feel, feel your power quickly; So distribution should undo excess, And each man have enough. Dost thou know Dover?
EDGAR. Ay, master.
GLOUCESTER. There is a cliff, whose high and bending head Looks fearfully in the confined deep: Bring me but to the very brim of it, And I’ll repair the misery thou dost bear With something rich about me: from that place I shall no leading need.
EDGAR. Give me thy arm: Poor Tom shall lead thee.
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE II. Before the Duke of Albany’s Palace
Enter Goneril, Edmund; Oswald meeting them.
GONERIL. Welcome, my lord. I marvel our mild husband Not met us on the way. Now, where’s your master?
OSWALD. Madam, within; but never man so chang’d. I told him of the army that was landed; He smil’d at it: I told him you were coming; His answer was, ‘The worse.’ Of Gloucester’s treachery And of the loyal service of his son When I inform’d him, then he call’d me sot, And told me I had turn’d the wrong side out. What most he should dislike seems pleasant to him; What like, offensive.
GONERIL. [_To Edmund._] Then shall you go no further. It is the cowish terror of his spirit, That dares not undertake. He’ll not feel wrongs Which tie him to an answer. Our wishes on the way May prove effects. Back, Edmund, to my brother; Hasten his musters and conduct his powers. I must change names at home, and give the distaff Into my husband’s hands. This trusty servant Shall pass between us. Ere long you are like to hear, If you dare venture in your own behalf, A mistress’s command. [_Giving a favour._] Wear this; spare speech; Decline your head. This kiss, if it durst speak, Would stretch thy spirits up into the air. Conceive, and fare thee well.
EDMUND. Yours in the ranks of death.
[_Exit Edmund._]
GONERIL. My most dear Gloucester. O, the difference of man and man! To thee a woman’s services are due; My fool usurps my body.
OSWALD. Madam, here comes my lord.
[_Exit._]
Enter Albany.
GONERIL. I have been worth the whistle.
ALBANY. O Goneril! You are not worth the dust which the rude wind Blows in your face! I fear your disposition; That nature which contemns its origin Cannot be bordered certain in itself. She that herself will sliver and disbranch From her material sap, perforce must wither And come to deadly use.
GONERIL. No more; the text is foolish.
ALBANY. Wisdom and goodness to the vile seem vile; Filths savour but themselves. What have you done? Tigers, not daughters, what have you perform’d? A father, and a gracious aged man, Whose reverence even the head-lugg’d bear would lick, Most barbarous, most degenerate, have you madded. Could my good brother suffer you to do it? A man, a prince, by him so benefitted! If that the heavens do not their visible spirits Send quickly down to tame these vile offences, It will come, Humanity must perforce prey on itself, Like monsters of the deep.
GONERIL. Milk-liver’d man! That bear’st a cheek for blows, a head for wrongs; Who hast not in thy brows an eye discerning Thine honour from thy suffering; that not know’st Fools do those villains pity who are punish’d Ere they have done their mischief. Where’s thy drum? France spreads his banners in our noiseless land; With plumed helm thy state begins to threat, Whilst thou, a moral fool, sitt’st still, and criest ‘Alack, why does he so?’
ALBANY. See thyself, devil! Proper deformity seems not in the fiend So horrid as in woman.
GONERIL. O vain fool!
ALBANY. Thou changed and self-cover’d thing, for shame! Be-monster not thy feature! Were’t my fitness To let these hands obey my blood, They are apt enough to dislocate and tear Thy flesh and bones. Howe’er thou art a fiend, A woman’s shape doth shield thee.
GONERIL. Marry, your manhood, mew!
Enter a Messenger.
ALBANY. What news?
MESSENGER. O, my good lord, the Duke of Cornwall’s dead; Slain by his servant, going to put out The other eye of Gloucester.
ALBANY. Gloucester’s eyes!
MESSENGER. A servant that he bred, thrill’d with remorse, Oppos’d against the act, bending his sword To his great master; who, thereat enrag’d, Flew on him, and amongst them fell’d him dead; But not without that harmful stroke which since Hath pluck’d him after.
ALBANY. This shows you are above, You justicers, that these our nether crimes So speedily can venge! But, O poor Gloucester! Lost he his other eye?
MESSENGER. Both, both, my lord. This letter, madam, craves a speedy answer; ’Tis from your sister.
GONERIL. [_Aside._] One way I like this well; But being widow, and my Gloucester with her, May all the building in my fancy pluck Upon my hateful life. Another way The news is not so tart. I’ll read, and answer.
[_Exit._]
ALBANY. Where was his son when they did take his eyes?
MESSENGER. Come with my lady hither.
ALBANY. He is not here.
MESSENGER. No, my good lord; I met him back again.
ALBANY. Knows he the wickedness?
MESSENGER. Ay, my good lord. ’Twas he inform’d against him; And quit the house on purpose, that their punishment Might have the freer course.
ALBANY. Gloucester, I live To thank thee for the love thou show’dst the King, And to revenge thine eyes. Come hither, friend, Tell me what more thou know’st.
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE III. The French camp near Dover
Enter Kent and a Gentleman.
KENT. Why the King of France is so suddenly gone back, know you no reason?
GENTLEMAN. Something he left imperfect in the state, which since his coming forth is thought of, which imports to the kingdom so much fear and danger that his personal return was most required and necessary.
KENT. Who hath he left behind him general?
GENTLEMAN. The Mareschal of France, Monsieur La Far.
KENT. Did your letters pierce the queen to any demonstration of grief?
GENTLEMAN. Ay, sir; she took them, read them in my presence; And now and then an ample tear trill’d down Her delicate cheek. It seem’d she was a queen Over her passion; who, most rebel-like, Sought to be king o’er her.
KENT. O, then it mov’d her.
GENTLEMAN. Not to a rage: patience and sorrow strove Who should express her goodliest. You have seen Sunshine and rain at once: her smiles and tears Were like a better day. Those happy smilets That play’d on her ripe lip seem’d not to know What guests were in her eyes; which parted thence As pearls from diamonds dropp’d. In brief, Sorrow would be a rarity most belov’d, If all could so become it.
KENT. Made she no verbal question?
GENTLEMAN. Faith, once or twice she heav’d the name of ‘father’ Pantingly forth, as if it press’d her heart; Cried ‘Sisters, sisters! Shame of ladies! sisters! Kent! father! sisters! What, i’ the storm? i’ the night? Let pity not be believ’d!’ There she shook The holy water from her heavenly eyes, And clamour master’d her: then away she started To deal with grief alone.
KENT. It is the stars, The stars above us govern our conditions; Else one self mate and make could not beget Such different issues. You spoke not with her since?
GENTLEMAN. No.
KENT. Was this before the King return’d?
GENTLEMAN. No, since.
KENT. Well, sir, the poor distressed Lear’s i’ the town; Who sometime, in his better tune, remembers What we are come about, and by no means Will yield to see his daughter.
GENTLEMAN. Why, good sir?