King Lear
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 prythee, 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,