King Lear
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 prythee 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,