Love at a Reasonable Price

SCENE III. A wood.
Enter EDGAR
EDGAR
I heard myself proclaim’d;
And by the happy hollow of a tree
Escaped the hunt. No port is free; no place,
That guard, and most unusual vigilance,
Does not attend my taking. Whiles 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 out-face
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 KING LEAR, Fool, and Gentleman
KING 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!
KING LEAR
Ha!
Makest 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’s
over-lusty at legs, then he wears wooden
nether-stocks.
KING 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.
KING LEAR
No.
KENT
Yes.
KING LEAR
No, I say.
KENT
I say, yea.
KING LEAR
No, no, they would not.
KENT
Yes, they have.
KING LEAR
By Jupiter, I swear, no.
KENT
By Juno, I swear, ay.
KING 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 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 perceived, had poison’d mine,–
Being the very fellow that of late
Display’d so saucily against your highness,–
Having more man than wit about me, drew:
He raised 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 the poor.
But, for all this, thou shalt have as many dolours
for thy daughters as thou canst tell in a year.
KING 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.
KING 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 train?
Fool
And 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 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 learned you this, fool?
Fool
Not i’ the stocks, fool.
Re-enter KING LEAR with GLOUCESTER
KING 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 unremoveable and fix’d he is
In his own course.
KING LEAR
Vengeance! plague! death! confusion!
Fiery? what quality? Why, Gloucester, Gloucester,
I’ld speak with the Duke of Cornwall and his wife.
GLOUCESTER
Well, my good lord, I have inform’d them so.
KING LEAR
Inform’d them! Dost thou understand me, man?
GLOUCESTER
Ay, my good lord.
KING 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 fall’n out with my more headier will,
To take the indisposed 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 practise only. Give me my servant forth.
Go tell the duke and ‘s wife I’ld 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
KING 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
KING LEAR
Good morrow to you both.
CORNWALL
Hail to your grace!
KENT is set at liberty
REGAN
I am glad to see your highness.
KING 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 depraved 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.
KING 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.
KING 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 ruled 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.
KING 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.
KING 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 stored vengeances of heaven fall
On her ingrateful top! Strike her young bones,
You taking airs, with lameness!
CORNWALL
Fie, sir, fie!
KING 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.
KING 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.
KING 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?
KING LEAR
This is a slave, whose easy-borrow’d pride
Dwells in the fickle grace of her he follows.
Out, varlet, from my sight!
CORNWALL
What means your grace?
KING 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 ashamed 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.
KING 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
Deserved much less advancement.
KING 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.
KING 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 warm-blooded France, that dower or no
Does love, does cherish, obey and transport
Our youngest born, how will that ally true
And bold this shameful affront understand?
Return with her? Oh France! Return to me!
Pointing at OSWALD
GONERIL
At your choice sir. Dotage mistakes itself
With daughters here; and so embellishes
Across the silent sea, pretending there,
In infected swollen folly, an ear
More sympathetic to beclouded thoughts.
KING 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, 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.
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.
KING 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 chanced 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.
KING LEAR
I gave you all–
REGAN
And in good time you gave it.
KING 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?
REGAN
And speak’t again, my lord; no more with me.
KING 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?
KING 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’s as 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 stir 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 KING LEAR, GLOUCESTER, KENT, and Fool
Storm and tempest
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 purposed.
Where is my lord of Gloucester?
CORNWALL
Follow’d the old man forth: he is return’d.
Re-enter GLOUCESTER
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 bleak winds
Do sorely ruffle; for many miles a bout
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 abused, wisdom bids fear.
CORNWALL
Shut up your doors, my lord; ’tis a wild night:
My Regan counsels well; come out o’ the storm.
Exeunt

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 lovest 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 knave, a 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, pandar,
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 is 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, with his rapier drawn, CORNWALL, REGAN, GLOUCESTER, and Servants
EDMUND
How now! What’s the matter?
KENT
With you, goodman boy, an 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 bestirred 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 stone-cutter or painter could
not have made him so ill, though he had been but two
hours at the trade.
CORNWALL
Speak yet, how grew your quarrel?
OSWALD
This ancient ruffian, sir, whose life I have spared
at suit of his gray beard,–
KENT
Thou whoreson zed! thou unnecessary letter! My
lord, if you will give me leave, I will tread this
unbolted villain into mortar, and daub the wall of
a jakes with him. Spare my gray 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 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 nought, 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’ld drive ye cackling home to Camelot.
CORNWALL
Why, 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 a knave? What’s his offence?
KENT
His countenance likes me not.
CORNWALL
No more, perchance, does mine, nor his, nor 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 praised 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 sooth, in sincere verity,
Under the 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 pleased the king his master very late
To strike at me, upon his misconstruction;
When he, conjunct 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-subdued;
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 reverend 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.
CORNWALL
This is a fellow of the self-same colour
Our sister speaks of. Come, bring away the stocks!
Stocks brought out
GLOUCESTER
Let me beseech your grace not to do so:
His fault is much, and the good king his master
Will cheque him for ‘t: your purposed 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’s so slightly valued in his messenger,
Should have him thus restrain’d.
CORNWALL
I’ll answer that.
REGAN
My sister may receive it much more worse,
To have her gentleman abused, 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
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 watched 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 comest
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 our 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!
Sleeps

SCENE I. GLOUCESTER’s castle.
Enter EDMUND, and CURAN meets him
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
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 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: 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.
Wounds his arm
Of my more fierce endeavour: 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 some 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, lanced mine arm:
But when he saw my best alarum’d spirits,
Bold in the quarrel’s right, roused to the 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. 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.
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’ld turn it all
To thy suggestion, plot, and damned practise:
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
Strong and fasten’d villain
Would he deny his letter? 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 the 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 the 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 named? 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 child-like office.
EDMUND
‘Twas my duty, sir.
GLOUCESTER
He did bewray his practise; and received
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-eyed 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 least 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

SCENE IV. A hall in the same.
Enter KENT, disguised
KENT
If but as well I other accents borrow,
That can my speech defuse, my good intent
May carry through itself to that full issue
For which I razed my likeness. Now, medd’ling Kent,
who’s thought departed with Cordelia’s camp,
will a vigil, cloaked and armed, dogged hold.
Horns within. Enter KING LEAR, Knights, and Attendants
KING LEAR
Let me not stay a jot for dinner; go get it ready.
Exit an Attendant
How now! what art thou?
KENT
A man, sir.
KING LEAR
What dost thou profess? what wouldst thou with us?
KENT
I do profess to be no less than I seem; to serve
him truly that will put me in trust: to love him
that is honest; to converse with him that is wise,
and says little; to fear judgment; to fight when I
cannot choose; and to eat no fish.
KING LEAR
What art thou?
KENT
A very honest-hearted fellow, and as poor as the king.
KING LEAR
If thou be as poor for a subject as he is for a
king, thou art poor enough. What wouldst thou?
KENT
Service.
KING LEAR
Who wouldst thou serve?
KENT
You.
KING LEAR
Dost thou know me, fellow?
KENT
No, sir; but you have that in your countenance
which I would fain call master.
KING LEAR
What’s that?
KENT
Authority.
KING LEAR
What services canst thou do?
KENT
I can keep honest counsel, ride, run, mar a curious
tale in telling it, and deliver a plain message
bluntly: that which ordinary men are fit for, I am
qualified in; and the best of me is diligence.
KING LEAR
How old art thou?
KENT
Not so young, sir, to love a woman for singing, nor
so old to dote on her for any thing: I have years
on my back forty eight.
KING LEAR
Follow me; thou shalt serve me: if I like thee no
worse after dinner, I will not part from thee yet.
Dinner, ho, dinner! Where’s my knave? my fool?
Go you, and call my fool hither.
Exit an Attendant
Enter OSWALD
You, you, sirrah, where’s my daughter?
OSWALD
So please you,–
Exit
KING LEAR
What says the fellow there? Call the clotpoll back.
Exit a Knight
Where’s my fool, ho? I think the world’s asleep.
Re-enter Knight
How now! where’s that mongrel?
Knight
He says, my lord, your daughter is not well.
KING LEAR
Why came not the slave back to me when I called him.
Knight
Sir, he answered me in the roundest manner, he would
not.
KING LEAR
He would not!
Knight
My lord, I know not what the matter is; but, to my
judgment, your highness is not entertained with that
ceremonious affection as you were wont; there’s a
great abatement of kindness appears as well in the
general dependants as in the duke himself also and
your daughter.
KING LEAR
Ha! sayest thou so?
Knight
I beseech you, pardon me, my lord, if I be mistaken;
for my duty cannot be silent when I think your
highness wronged.
KING LEAR
Thou but rememberest me of mine own conception: I
have perceived a most faint neglect of late; which I
have rather blamed as mine own jealous curiosity
than as a very pretence and purpose of unkindness:
I will look further into’t. But where’s my fool? I
have not seen him this two days.
Knight
Since my young lady’s going into France, sir, the
fool hath much pined away.
KING LEAR
No more of that; I have noted it well. Go you, and
tell my daughter I would speak with her.
Exit an Attendant
Go you, call hither my fool.
Exit an Attendant
Re-enter OSWALD
O, you sir, you, come you hither, sir: who am I,
sir?
OSWALD
My lady’s father.
KING LEAR
‘My lady’s father’! my lord’s knave: your
whoreson dog! you slave! you cur!
OSWALD
I am none of these, my lord; I beseech your pardon.
KING LEAR
Do you bandy looks with me, you rascal?
Striking him
OSWALD
I’ll not be struck, my lord.
KENT
Nor tripped neither, you base football player.
Tripping up his heels
KING LEAR
I thank thee, fellow; thou servest me, and I’ll
love thee.
KENT
Come, sir, arise, away! I’ll teach you differences:
away, away! if you will measure your lubber’s
length again, tarry: but away! go to; have you
wisdom? so.
Pushes OSWALD out
KING LEAR
Now, my friendly knave, I thank thee: there’s
earnest of thy service.
Giving KENT money
Enter Fool
Fool
Let me hire him too: here’s my coxcomb.
Offering KENT his cap
KING LEAR
How now, my pretty knave! how dost thou?
Fool
Sirrah, you were best take my coxcomb.
KENT
Why, fool?
Fool
Why, for taking one’s part that’s out of favour:
nay, an thou canst not smile as the wind sits,
thou’lt catch cold shortly:
How now, nuncle! Would I had three coxcombs and three daughters!
KING LEAR
Why, my boy?
Fool
If I gave them all my living, I’ld keep my coxcombs
myself. There’s mine; beg another of thy daughters.
KING LEAR
Take heed, sirrah; the whip.
Fool
Truth’s a dog must to kennel; he must be whipped
out, when Lady the brach may stand by the fire and stink.
KING LEAR
A pestilent gall to me!
Fool
Sirrah, I’ll teach thee a speech.
KING LEAR
Do.
Fool
Mark it, nuncle:
Have more than thou showest,
Speak less than thou knowest,
Lend less than thou owest,
Ride more than thou goest,
Learn more than thou trowest,
Set less than thou throwest;
Leave thy drink and thy whore,
And keep in-a-door,
And thou shalt have more
Than two tens to a score.
KENT
This is nothing, fool.
Fool
Then ’tis like the breath of an unfee’d lawyer; you
gave me nothing for’t. Can you make no use of
nothing, nuncle?
KING LEAR
Why, no, boy; nothing can be made out of nothing.
Fool
[To KENT] Prithee, tell him, so much the rent of
his land comes to: he will not believe a fool.
KING LEAR
A bitter fool!
Fool
Dost thou know the difference, my boy, between a
bitter fool and a sweet fool?
KING LEAR
No, lad; teach me.
Fool
That lord that counsell’d thee
To give away thy land,
Come place him here by me,
Do thou for him stand:
The sweet and bitter fool
Will presently appear;
The one in motley here,
The other found out there.
KING LEAR
Dost thou call me fool, boy?
Fool
All thy other titles thou hast given away; that
thou wast born with.
KENT
This is not altogether fool, my lord.
Fool
No, faith, lords and great men will not let me; if
I had a monopoly out, they would have part on’t:
and ladies too, they will not let me have all fool
to myself; they’ll be snatching. Give me an egg,
nuncle, and I’ll give thee two crowns.
KING LEAR
What two crowns shall they be?
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 one two three, and gavest away
All parts, thou borest thy ass on thy back o’er
the dirt: thou hadst little wit in thy bald crown,
when thou gavest 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 wit in a year;
For wise men are grown foppish,
They know not how their wits to wear,
Their manners are so apish.
KING LEAR
When were you wont to be so full of songs, sirrah?
Fool
I have used it, nuncle, ever since thou madest thy
daughters thy mothers: for when thou gavest 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.
KING 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’ all sides,
and left nothing i’ the middle: here comes one o’
the parings.
Enter GONERIL
KING 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 KING LEAR
That’s a shealed peascod.
GONERIL
Not only, sir, this your all-licensed 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 trow, 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.
KING 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, that 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.
KING 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.
KING 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.
KING LEAR
Your name, fair gentlewoman?
GONERIL
This admiration, sir, is much o’ the savour
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
Make it more like a tavern or a brothel
Than a graced palace. The shame itself doth speak
For instant remedy: be then desired
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,
And know themselves and you.
KING LEAR
Darkness and devils!
Saddle my horses; call my train together:
Degenerate bastard! I’ll not trouble thee.
Let Regan a daughter to her father be!
GONERIL
You strike my people; and your disorder’d rabble
Make servants of their betters.
Enter ALBANY
KING 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.
KING 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 proud fault,
That, like an engine, wrench’d my frame of nature
From the fix’d place; drew from mind all sense,
And king a pauper made. O Lear, Lear, Lear!
Beat at this gate, that let thy folly in,
Striking his head
And thy dear judgment out! Go, go, my people.
ALBANY
My lord, I am guiltless, as I am ignorant
Of what hath moved you.
KING 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 disnatured 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 the cause;
But let his disposition have that scope
That dotage gives it.
Re-enter KING LEAR
KING LEAR
What, fifty of my followers at a clap!
Within a fortnight!
ALBANY
What’s the matter, sir?
KING LEAR
I’ll tell thee:
To GONERIL
Life and death! I am ashamed
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!
The 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. Yea, it is come to this?
Let is be so: yet have I left a neighbor here,
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: thou shalt,
I warrant thee.
Exeunt KING LEAR, KENT, and Attendants
GONERIL
Do you mark that, my lord?
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 the unfitness,–
Re-enter OSWALD
How now, Oswald!
What, have you writ that letter to my sister?
OSWALD
Yes, 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 praised for harmful mildness.
ALBANY
How far your eyes may pierce I can not tell:
Striving to better, oft we mar what’s well.
GONERIL
Nay, then–
ALBANY
Well, well; the event.
Exeunt

SCENE V. Court before the same.
Enter KING LEAR, KENT, and Fool
KING LEAR
Go you before to Gloucester with these letters.
Acquaint my daughter no further with any thing 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?
KING LEAR
Ay, boy.
Fool
Then, I prithee, be merry; thy wit shall ne’er go
slip-shod.
KING 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.
KING LEAR
Why, what canst thou tell, my boy?
Fool
She will 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?
KING 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.
KING LEAR
I did her wrong–
Fool
Canst tell how an oyster makes his shell?
KING LEAR
No.
Fool
Nor I neither; but I can tell why a snail has a house.
KING LEAR
Why?
Fool
Why, to put his head in; not to give it away to his
daughters, and leave his horns without a case.
KING 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.
KING LEAR
Because they are not eight?
Fool
Yes, indeed: thou wouldst make a good fool.
KING LEAR
To take ‘t again perforce! Monster ingratitude!
Fool
If thou wert my fool, nuncle, I’ld have thee beaten
for being old before thy time.
KING LEAR
How’s that?
Fool
Thou shouldst not have been old till thou hadst
been wise.
KING 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.
KING 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

SCENE III. The Duke of Albany’s palace.
Enter GONERIL, and OSWALD, her steward
GONERIL
Did my father strike my gentleman for chiding of his fool?
OSWALD
Yes, madam.
GONERIL
By day and night he wrongs me; every hour
He flashes into one gross crime or other,
That sets us all at odds: I’ll not endure it:
His knights grow riotous, and himself upbraids us
On every trifle. When he returns from hunting,
I will not speak with him; say I am sick:
If you come slack of former services,
You shall do well; the fault of it I’ll answer.
OSWALD
He’s coming, madam; I hear him.
Horns within
GONERIL
Put on what weary negligence you please,
You and your fellows; I’ll have it come to question:
If he dislike it, let him to our Regan,
Whose mind and mine, I know, in that are one,
Not to be over-ruled. Idle old man,
That still would manage those authorities
That he hath given away! Now, by my life,
Old fools are babes again; and must be used
With cheques as flatteries,–when they are seen abused.
Remember what I tell you.
OSWALD
Well, madam.
GONERIL
And let his knights have colder looks among you;
What grows of it, no matter; advise your fellows so:
I would breed from hence occasions, and I shall,
That I may speak: I’ll write straight to friend Regan
To hold my very course. Prepare for dinner.
Exeunt
OSWALD
And when Cordelia, more lenient and loved,
from France’s golden yawns to somber sky
returns?
GONERIL
Cordelia! Easy is the love she sends
From past the sea! Our father well in hand
We’ll hold, and France his wife the same.
And when her frolic she fin’lly resolves
To pause, Cordelia shall our peace and hers
Approve. Be sure of it!

SCENE II. The Earl of Gloucester’s castle.
Enter EDMUND, with a letter
EDMUND
Thou, nature, art my goddess; to thy law
My services are bound. Wherefore should I
Stand in the plague of custom, and permit
The curiosity of nations to deprive me,
For that I am some twelve or fourteen moon-shines
Lag of a brother? Why bastard? wherefore base?
When my dimensions are as well compact,
My mind as generous, and my shape as true,
As honest madam’s issue? Why brand they us
With base? with baseness? bastardy? base, base?
Who, in the lusty stealth of nature, take
More composition and fierce quality
Than doth, within a dull, stale, tired bed,
Go to the creating a whole tribe of fops,
Got ‘tween asleep and wake? Well, then,
Legitimate Edgar, I must have your land:
Our father’s love is to the bastard Edmund
As to the legitimate: fine word,–legitimate!
Well, my legitimate, if this letter speed,
And my invention thrive, Edmund the base
Shall top the legitimate. I grow; I prosper:
Now, gods, stand up for bastards!
Enter GLOUCESTER
GLOUCESTER
The King himself reversing fast as bolt
does zag ‘tween earth and cloud. With jolly pomp
He names his spinning “cunning”, though all seems
Upon the gad. Edmund, how now! what news?
EDMUND
So please your lordship, none.
Putting up the letter
GLOUCESTER
Why so earnestly seek you to put up that letter?
EDMUND
I know no news, my lord.
GLOUCESTER
What paper were you reading?
EDMUND
Nothing, my lord.
GLOUCESTER
No? What needed, then, that terrible dispatch of
it into your pocket? the quality of nothing hath
not such need to hide itself. Let’s see: come,
if it be nothing, I shall not need spectacles.
EDMUND
I beseech you, sir, pardon me: it is a letter
from my brother, that I have not all o’er-read;
and for so much as I have perused, I find it not
fit for your o’er-looking.
GLOUCESTER
Give me the letter, sir.
EDMUND
I shall offend, either to detain or give it. The
contents, as in part I understand them, are to blame.
GLOUCESTER
Let’s see, let’s see.
EDMUND
I hope, for my brother’s justification, he wrote
this but as an essay or taste of my virtue.
GLOUCESTER
[Reads] ‘This policy and reverence of age makes
the world bitter to the best of our times; keeps
our fortunes from us till our oldness cannot relish
them. I begin to find an idle and fond bondage
in the oppression of aged tyranny; who sways, not
as it hath power, but as it is suffered. Come to
me, that of this I may speak more. If our father
would sleep till I waked him, you should half his
revenue for ever, and live the beloved of your
brother, EDGAR.’
Hum–conspiracy!–‘Sleep till I waked him,–you
should enjoy half his revenue,’–My son Edgar!
Had he a hand to write this? a heart and brain
to breed it in?–When came this to you? who
brought it?
EDMUND
It was not brought me, my lord; there’s the
cunning of it; I found it thrown in at the
casement of my closet.
GLOUCESTER
You know the character to be your brother’s?
EDMUND
If the matter were good, my lord, I durst swear
it were his; but, in respect of that, I would
fain think it were not.
GLOUCESTER
It is his.
EDMUND
It is his hand, my lord; but I hope his heart is
not in the contents.
GLOUCESTER
Hath he never heretofore sounded you in this business?
EDMUND
Never, my lord: but I have heard him oft
maintain it to be fit, that, sons at perfect age,
and fathers declining, the father should be as
ward to the son, and the son manage his revenue.
GLOUCESTER
O villain, villain! His very opinion in the
letter! Abhorred villain! Unnatural, detested,
brutish villain! worse than brutish! Go, sirrah,
seek him; I’ll apprehend him: abominable villain!
Where is he?
EDMUND
I do not well know, my lord. If it shall please
you to suspend your indignation against my
brother till you can derive from him better
testimony of his intent, you shall run a certain
course; where, if you violently proceed against
him, mistaking his purpose, it would make a great
gap in your own honour, and shake in pieces the
heart of his obedience. I dare pawn down my life
for him, that he hath wrote this to feel my
affection to your honour, and to no further
pretence of danger.
GLOUCESTER
Think you so?
EDMUND
If your honour judge it meet, I will place you
where you shall hear us confer of this, and by an
auricular assurance have your satisfaction; and
that without any further delay than this very evening.
GLOUCESTER
He cannot be such a monster–
EDMUND
Nor is not, sure.
GLOUCESTER
To his father, that so tenderly and entirely
loves him. Heaven and earth! Edmund, seek him
out: wind me into him, I pray you: frame the
business after your own wisdom. I would unstate
myself, to be in a due resolution.
EDMUND
I will seek him, sir, presently: convey the
business as I shall find means and acquaint you withal.
GLOUCESTER
These late eclipses in the sun and moon portend
no good to us: though the wisdom of nature can
reason it thus and thus, yet nature finds itself
scourged by the sequent effects: love cools,
friendship falls off, brothers divide: in
cities, mutinies; in countries, discord; in
palaces, treason; and the bond cracked ‘twixt son
and father. This villain of mine comes under the
prediction; there’s son against father: Weep!
For we have past the best hour of our time!
Machinations, hollowness, treachery, and all
ruinous disorders, follow us disquietly to our
graves. Find out this villain, Edmund; it shall
lose thee nothing; do it carefully. And the
deep cold November air by hot summer wind
First poked, then prodded, then parted. ‘Tis strange.
Exit
EDMUND
This is the excellent foppery of the world, that,
when we are sick in fortune,–often the surfeit
of our own behavior,–we make guilty of our
disasters the sun, the moon, and the stars: as
if we were villains by necessity; fools by
heavenly compulsion; knaves, thieves, and
treachers, by spherical predominance; drunkards,
liars, and adulterers, by an enforced obedience of
planetary influence; and all that we are evil in,
by a divine thrusting on: an admirable evasion
of whoremaster man, to lay his goatish
disposition to the charge of a star! My
father compounded with my mother under the
dragon’s tail; and my nativity was under Ursa
major; so that it follows, I am rough and
lecherous. Tut, I should have been that I am,
had the maidenliest star in the firmament
twinkled on my bastardizing. Edgar–
Enter EDGAR
And pat he comes like the catastrophe of the old
comedy: my cue is villanous melancholy, with a
sigh like Tom o’ Bedlam. O, these eclipses do
portend these divisions! fa, sol, la, mi.
EDGAR
How now, brother Edmund! what serious
contemplation are you in?
EDMUND
I am thinking, brother, of a prediction I read
this other day, what should follow these eclipses.
EDGAR
Do you busy yourself about that?
EDMUND
I promise you, the effects he writes of succeed
unhappily; as of unnaturalness between the child
and the parent; death, dearth, dissolutions of
ancient amities; divisions in state, menaces and
maledictions against king and nobles; needless
diffidences, banishment of friends, dissipation
of cohorts, nuptial breaches, and I know not what.
EDGAR
How long have you been a sectary astronomical?
EDMUND
Come, come; when saw you my father last?
EDGAR
Why, the night gone by.
EDMUND
Spake you with him?
EDGAR
Ay, two hours together.
EDMUND
Parted you in good terms? Found you no
displeasure in him by word or countenance?
EDGAR
None at all.
EDMUND
Bethink yourself wherein you may have offended
him: and at my entreaty forbear his presence
till some little time hath qualified the heat of
his displeasure; which at this instant so rageth
in him, that with the mischief of your person it
would scarcely allay.
EDGAR
Some villain hath done me wrong.
EDMUND
That’s my fear. I pray you, have a continent
forbearance till the speed of his rage goes
slower; and, as I say, retire with me to my
lodging, from whence I will fitly bring you to
hear my lord speak: pray ye, go; there’s my key:
if you do stir abroad, go armed.
EDGAR
Armed, brother!
EDMUND
Brother, I advise you to the best; go armed: I
am no honest man if there be any good meaning
towards you: I have told you what I have seen
and heard, but faintly–nothing like the image
and horror of it: pray you, away.
EDGAR
Shall I hear from you anon?
EDMUND
I do serve you in this business.
Exit EDGAR
A credulous father! and a brother noble,
Whose nature is so far from doing harms,
That he suspects none: on whose foolish honesty
My practises ride easy! I see the business.
Let me, if not by birth, have lands by wit:
All with me’s meet that I can fashion fit.
Exit

SCENE I. King Lear’s palace.

Sennet. Enter KENT, KING LEAR, CORNWALL, ALBANY, GONERIL, REGAN, CORDELIA, and Attendants

KING LEAR
Attend the lords of France and Burgundy, Gloucester.

GLOUCESTER
I shall, my liege.
Exeunt GLOUCESTER and EDMUND

KING LEAR
Meantime we shall express our darker purpose.
Give me the map there. Know that we have divided
In three our kingdom: and ’tis our fast intent
To shake all cares and business from our age;
Conferring them on younger strengths, while we
Unburthen’d crawl toward death. Our son of Cornwall,
And you, our no less loving son of Albany,
We have this hour a constant will to publish
Our daughters’ several dowers, that future strife
May be prevented now. The princes, France and Burgundy,
Great rivals in our youngest daughter’s love,
Long in our court have made their amorous sojourn,
And here are to be answer’d. Tell me, my daughters,–
Since now we will divest us both of rule,
Interest of territory, cares of state,–
Which of you shall we say doth love us most?
That we our largest bounty may extend
Where nature doth with merit challenge. Goneril,
Our eldest-born, speak first.

GONERIL
Sir, I love you more than words can wield the matter;
Dearer than eye-sight, space, and liberty;
Beyond what can be valued, rich or rare;
No less than life, with grace, health, beauty, honour;
As much as child e’er loved, or father found;
A love that makes breath poor, and speech unable;
Beyond all manner of so much I love you.

CORDELIA
[Aside] What shall Cordelia do?
Love, and be silent.

LEAR
Of all these bounds, even from this line to this,
With shadowy forests and with champains rich’d,
With plenteous rivers and wide-skirted meads,
We make thee lady: to thine and Albany’s issue
Be this perpetual. What says our second daughter,
Our dearest Regan, wife to Cornwall? Speak.

REGAN
Sir, I am made
Of the self-same metal that my sister is,
And prize me at her worth. In my true heart
I find she names my very deed of love;
Only she comes too short: that I profess
Myself an enemy to all other joys,
Which the most precious square of sense possesses;
And find I am alone felicitate
In your dear highness’ love.

CORDELIA
[Aside] Then poor Cordelia!
And yet not so; since, I am sure, my love’s
More richer than my tongue.

KING LEAR
To thee and thine hereditary ever
Remain this ample third of our fair kingdom;
No less in space, validity, and pleasure,
Than that conferr’d on Goneril. Now, our joy,
Although the last, not least; to whose young love
The vines of France and milk of Burgundy
Strive to be interess’d; what can you say to draw
A third more opulent than your sisters? Speak.

CORDELIA
Nothing, my lord.

KING LEAR
Nothing!

CORDELIA
Nothing.

KING LEAR
Nothing will come of nothing: speak again.

CORDELIA
Unhappy that I am, I cannot heave
My heart into my mouth: I love your majesty
According to my bond; nor more nor less.

KING LEAR
How, how, Cordelia! mend your speech a little,
Lest it may mar your fortunes.

CORDELIA
Good my lord,
You have begot me, bred me, loved me: I
Return those duties back as are right fit,
Obey you, love you, and most honour you.
Why have my sisters husbands, if they say
They love you all? Haply, when I shall wed,
That lord whose hand must take my plight shall carry
Half my love with him, half my care and duty:
Sure, I shall never marry like my sisters,
To love my father all.

KING LEAR
But goes thy heart with this?

CORDELIA
Ay, good my lord.

KING LEAR
So young, and so untender?

CORDELIA
So young, my lord, and true.

KING LEAR
Let it be so; thy truth, then, be thy dower:
For, by the sacred radiance of the sun,
The mysteries of Hecate, and the night;
By all the operation of the orbs
From whom we do exist, and cease to be;
Here I disclaim all my paternal care,
Propinquity and property of blood,
And as a stranger to my heart and me
Hold thee, from this, for ever. The barbarous Scythian,
Or he that makes his generation messes
To gorge his appetite, shall to my bosom
Be as well neighbour’d, pitied, and relieved,
As thou my sometime daughter.

KENT
Good my liege,–

KING LEAR
Peace, Kent!
Come not between the dragon and his wrath.
I loved her most, and thought to set my rest
On her kind nursery. Hence, and avoid my sight!
So be my grave my peace, as here I give
Her father’s heart from her! Call France; who stirs?
Call Burgundy. Cornwall and Albany,
With my two daughters’ dowers digest this third:
Let pride, which she calls plainness, marry her.
I do invest you jointly with my power,
Pre-eminence, and all the large effects
That troop with majesty. Ourself, by monthly course,
With reservation of an hundred knights,
By you to be sustain’d, shall our abode
Make with you by due turns. Only we still retain
The name, and all the additions to a king;
The sway, revenue, execution of the rest,
Beloved sons, be yours: which to confirm,
This coronet part betwixt you.
Giving the crown

KENT
Royal Lear,
Whom I have ever honour’d as my king,
Loved as my father, as my master follow’d,
As my great patron thought on in my prayers,–

KING LEAR
The bow is bent and drawn, make from the shaft.

KENT
Let it fall rather, though the fork invade
The region of my heart: be Kent unmannerly,
When Lear is mad. What wilt thou do, old man?
Think’st thou that duty shall have dread to speak,
When power to flattery bows? To plainness honour’s bound,
When majesty stoops to folly. Reverse thy doom;
And, in thy best consideration, cheque
This hideous rashness: answer my life my judgment,
Thy youngest daughter does not love thee least;
Nor are those empty-hearted whose low sound
Reverbs no hollowness.

KING LEAR
Kent, on thy life, no more.

KENT
My life I never held but as a pawn
To wage against thy enemies; nor fear to lose it,
Thy safety being the motive.

KING LEAR
Out of my sight!

KENT
See better, Lear; and let me still remain
The true blank of thine eye.

KING LEAR
Now, by Apollo!
A strange thunderbolt
Begun where neck cleaves chest and feeling’s born,
catastrophe of wind, of slapping willow limbs,
a child grows beyond fond father’s failing reach.
Dear God, please let a little light yet fall
into this withered king, no longer the man
to shake and shape the world, but still too proud
To bow as world, yet youthful, laughs him out.
Does she not refute us all? That is good,
much better rebuked by earth than by sky,
much luckier the lesson in time
than learnt too late in dark eternity.

KENT
Now, by Apollo, dear king,
by friendship, by sunlight, clasp my hands in yours!
No sight so dear as joyful strength within
bright human eyes.

KING LEAR
Yes, Kent, ourr Kent, full faithful Kent—
What dizzy smash, strange fuzzy flutterings
converge from ev’ry vantage; close me in
and spin me down right round. I fear
a deep, a drowning eddy’s caught me fast.

KENT
Good lord, relieve thy feet their charge and loose
these royal robes. Do breathe but slow and count

Flourish. Re-enter GLOUCESTER, with KING OF FRANCE, BURGUNDY, and Attendants

GLOUCESTER
Here’s France and Burgundy, my noble lord.

KING LEAR
My lord, my lord of Burgundy. So glad.
We first address towards you, who with this king
Hath rivall’d for our daughter: what, in the least,
Will you require in present dower with her,
Or cease your quest of love?

BURGUNDY
Most royal majesty,
I crave no more than what your highness offer’d,
Nor will you tender less.

KING LEAR
Right noble Burgundy,
When she was dear to us, we did hold her so;
But now her price is fall’n. Sir, there she stands:
If aught within that little seeming substance,
Or all of it, with our displeasure pieced,
And nothing more, may fitly like your grace,
She’s there, and she is yours.

CORDELIA
Father!

KING LEAR
Daughter!
A bunny sole in foxing woods does well
to keep completely narrow, list’ning wide.
But Burgundy, we wait upon your voice.

BURGUNDY
I know no answer.

KING LEAR
Will you, with those infirmities she owes,
Unfriended, new-adopted to our hate,
Dower’d with our curse, and stranger’d with our oath,
Take her, or leave her?

BURGUNDY
Pardon me, royal sir;
Election makes not up on such conditions.

KING LEAR
Then leave her, sir; for, by the power that made me,
I tell you all her wealth.

To KING OF FRANCE

For you, great king,
I would not from your love make such a stray,
To match you where I hate; therefore beseech you
To avert your liking a more worthier way
Than on a wretch whom nature is ashamed
Almost to acknowledge hers.

KING OF FRANCE
This is most strange,
That she, that even but now was your best object,
The argument of your praise, balm of your age,
Most best, most dearest, should in this trice of time
Commit a thing so monstrous, to dismantle
So many folds of favour. Sure, her offence
Must be of such unnatural degree,
That monsters it, or your fore-vouch’d affection
Fall’n into taint: which to believe of her,
Must be a faith that reason without miracle
Could never plant in me.

KING OF FRANCE
My lord of Burgundy,
What say you to the lady? Love’s not love
When it is mingled with regards that stand
Aloof from the entire point. Will you have her?
She is herself a dowry.

BURGUNDY
Royal Lear,
Give but that portion which yourself proposed,
And here I take Cordelia by the hand,
Duchess of Burgundy.

KING LEAR
Nothing: I have sworn; I am firm.

BURGUNDY
I am sorry, then, you have so lost a father
That you must lose a husband.

CORDELIA
Peace be with Burgundy!
Since that respects of fortune are his love,
I shall not be his wife.

KING OF FRANCE
Fairest Cordelia, that art most rich, being poor;
Most choice, forsaken; and most loved, despised!
Thee and thy virtues here I seize upon:
Be it lawful I take up what’s cast away.
Gods, gods! ’tis strange that from their cold’st neglect
My love should kindle to inflamed respect.
Thy dowerless daughter, king, thrown to my chance,
Is queen of us, of ours, and our fair France:
Not all the dukes of waterish Burgundy
Can buy this unprized precious maid of me.
Bid them farewell, Cordelia, though unkind:
Thou losest here, a better where to find.

CORDELIA
Thank you, who’ve proved a friend when friendship lost
Her throne. I’ll love a man who’ll love me thus
so nakedly.

KING LEAR
Thou hast her, France: let her be thine; but we
must now confess a silliness, a jest
of sorts, but more a sorting machination
For finding truest heart and deepest love.
To thee and thine hereditary ever
Remain this amplest third of our fair kingdom.
Deserving France, you’ve won our hearts to yours.
Dissolve us this grand flow’ring foolery
whereby we sought and found your metal’s luster.

CORDELIA
Oh father! Madness may atimes succeed,
but ’tis a dange’rous, frightful, wicked game.
I beg thee cool thy pace!

KING LEAR
Lesson well learned and promise deep engraved.
We’ll fool no more with foolery!, ’tis sworn.
But yet answer, please, my new found France:
In times of joy, when households join in love,
how counsels then the strong and even hand
of wisdom?, Gift of Gods to mortal man,
who otherwise, un-ruddered, wanders ‘bout,
a ghost who floats on gusts of changing whim
most meaningless.
How France?
Declare, fresh baptized son, a pace that fits
our merriment.

FRANCE
A mind who’s left behind its hollow bleats
and random squeaks, a gaze thus delivered
and wholly–ah most holy!–overwhelmed
by wisdom deep and wide, will portion fair:
With sorrows pairing quiet calm solace,
but placing joy atop a mountaintop
so mirthy light might echo, might resound,
and overflow all once firm boundary.
In times of joy, when households join in love,
the wise will feast and frolic sagaciously

Flourish. Exeunt all

Copyright: Mostly William Shakespeare, but his claim’s turned to dust; the innovations (the deviations!) belong to Andy Watson, who, yet longing to live off art and thought, requests that his fellows and their governments respect his still quick claim.