Login

Scriptlighter

x

Psst. Thanks for trying out Scriptlighter. We hope you like it.

Do you think you may use it again in the future?

Thanks for your feedback.

We're glad to hear that Scriptlighter works for you. If you're interested in helping us make Scriptlighter better, please fill out our short survey about your experience.

Take the survey

Found a problem with the play?

Fix it

King Lear

by William Shakespeare

Dramatis Personae

Act 1

Scene 1

Enter Kent, Gloucester, and Edmund.

Earl of Kent:I thought the King had more affected the Duke of Albany than Cornwall.

Earl of Gloucester:It did always seem so to us, but now in the division of the kingdom, it appears not which of the dukes he values most, for equalities are so weighed that curiosity in neither can make choice of either’s moiety.

Earl of Kent:Is not this your son, my lord?

Earl of Gloucester:His breeding, sir, hath been at my charge. I have so often blushed to acknowledge him that now I am brazed to ’t.

Earl of Kent:I cannot conceive you.

Earl of Gloucester:Sir, this young fellow’s mother could, whereupon she grew round-wombed and had indeed, sir, a son for her cradle ere she had a husband for her bed. Do you smell a fault?

Earl of Kent:I cannot wish the fault undone, the issue of it being so proper.

Earl of Gloucester:But I have a son, sir, by order of law, some year elder than this, who yet is no dearer in my account. Though this knave came something saucily to the world before he was sent for, yet was his mother fair, there was good sport at his making, and the whoreson must be acknowledged.—Do you know this noble gentleman, Edmund?

Edmund:No, my lord.

Earl of Gloucester:My lord of Kent. Remember him hereafter as my honorable friend.

Edmund:My services to your Lordship.

Earl of Kent:I must love you and sue to know you better.

Edmund:Sir, I shall study deserving.

Earl of Gloucester:He hath been out nine years, and away he shall again. [(Sennet.)] The King is coming.

Enter King Lear, Cornwall, Albany, Goneril, Regan, Cordelia, and Attendants.

Lear:Attend the lords of France and Burgundy, Gloucester.

Earl of Gloucester:I shall, my lord.

He exits.

Lear:Meantime we shall express our darker purpose.— Give me the map there. [He is handed a map.] 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 Unburdened 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 two great 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 answered. 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 word can wield the matter, Dearer than eyesight, space, and liberty, Beyond what can be valued, rich or rare, No less than life, with grace, health, beauty, honor; 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 speak? Love, and be silent.

Lear:[pointing to the map] Of all these bounds, even from this line to this, With shadowy forests and with champains riched, 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 of Cornwall? Speak.

Regan:I am made of that self mettle as my sister 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 ponderous than my tongue.

Lear:To thee and thine hereditary ever Remain this ample third of our fair kingdom, No less in space, validity, and pleasure Than that conferred on Goneril.—Now, our joy, Although our last and least, to whose young love The vines of France and milk of Burgundy Strive to be interessed, what can you say to draw A third more opulent than your sisters’? Speak.

Cordelia:Nothing, my lord.

Lear:Nothing?

Cordelia:Nothing.

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, no more nor less.

Lear:How, how, Cordelia? Mend your speech a little, Lest you 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 honor 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.

Lear:But goes thy heart with this?

Cordelia:Ay, my good lord.

Lear:So young and so untender?

Cordelia:So young, my lord, and true.

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 forever. The barbarous Scythian, Or he that makes his generation messes To gorge his appetite, shall to my bosom Be as well neighbored, pitied, and relieved As thou my sometime daughter.

Earl of Kent:Good my liege—

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. [To Cordelia.] 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. [An Attendant exits.] Cornwall and Albany, With my two daughters’ dowers digest the third. Let pride, which she calls plainness, marry her. I do invest you jointly with my power, Preeminence, and all the large effects That troop with majesty. Ourself by monthly course, With reservation of an hundred knights By you to be sustained, shall our abode Make with you by due turn. Only we shall retain The name and all th’ addition to a king. The sway, revenue, execution of the rest, Belovèd sons, be yours, which to confirm, This coronet part between you.

Earl of Kent:Royal Lear, Whom I have ever honored as my king, Loved as my father, as my master followed, As my great patron thought on in my prayers—

Lear:The bow is bent and drawn. Make from the shaft.

Earl of Kent:Let it fall rather, though the fork invade The region of my heart. Be Kent unmannerly When Lear is mad. What wouldst thou do, old man? Think’st thou that duty shall have dread to speak When power to flattery bows? To plainness honor’s bound When majesty falls to folly. Reserve thy state, And in thy best consideration check This hideous rashness. Answer my life my judgment, Thy youngest daughter does not love thee least, Nor are those empty-hearted whose low sounds Reverb no hollowness.

Lear:Kent, on thy life, no more.

Earl of Kent:My life I never held but as a pawn To wage against thine enemies, nor fear to lose it, Thy safety being motive.

Lear:Out of my sight!

Earl of Kent:See better, Lear, and let me still remain The true blank of thine eye.

Lear:Now, by Apollo—

Earl of Kent:Now, by Apollo, king, Thou swear’st thy gods in vain.

Lear:O vassal! Miscreant!

Duke of Albany, Duke of Cornwall:Dear sir, forbear.

Earl of Kent:Kill thy physician, and thy fee bestow Upon the foul disease. Revoke thy gift, Or whilst I can vent clamor from my throat, I’ll tell thee thou dost evil.

Lear:Hear me, recreant; on thine allegiance, hear me! That thou hast sought to make us break our vows— Which we durst never yet—and with strained pride To come betwixt our sentence and our power, Which nor our nature nor our place can bear, Our potency made good, take thy reward: Five days we do allot thee for provision To shield thee from disasters of the world, And on the sixth to turn thy hated back Upon our kingdom. If on the tenth day following Thy banished trunk be found in our dominions, The moment is thy death. Away! By Jupiter, This shall not be revoked.

Earl of Kent:Fare thee well, king. Sith thus thou wilt appear, Freedom lives hence, and banishment is here. [To Cordelia.] The gods to their dear shelter take thee, maid, That justly think’st and hast most rightly said. [To Goneril and Regan.] And your large speeches may your deeds approve, That good effects may spring from words of love.— Thus Kent, O princes, bids you all adieu. He’ll shape his old course in a country new.

He exits.

Flourish. Enter Gloucester with France, and Burgundy, and Attendants.

Earl of Gloucester:Here’s France and Burgundy, my noble lord.

Lear:My lord of Burgundy, We first address toward you, who with this king Hath rivaled for our daughter. What in the least Will you require in present dower with her, Or cease your quest of love?

Duke of Burgundy:Most royal Majesty, I crave no more than hath your Highness offered, Nor will you tender less.

Lear:Right noble Burgundy, When she was dear to us, we did hold her so, But now her price is fallen. 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.

Duke of Burgundy:I know no answer.

Lear:Will you, with those infirmities she owes, Unfriended, new-adopted to our hate, Dowered with our curse and strangered with our oath, Take her or leave her?

Duke of Burgundy:Pardon me, royal sir, Election makes not up in such conditions.

Lear:Then leave her, sir, for by the power that made me I tell you all her wealth.—For you, great king, I would not from your love make such a stray To match you where I hate. Therefore beseech you T’ avert your liking a more worthier way Than on a wretch whom Nature is ashamed Almost t’ acknowledge hers.

King of France:This is most strange, That she whom even but now was your best object, The argument of your praise, balm of your age, The best, the dearest, should in this trice of time Commit a thing so monstrous to dismantle So many folds of favor. Sure her offense Must be of such unnatural degree That monsters it, or your forevouched affection Fall into taint; which to believe of her Must be a faith that reason without miracle Should never plant in me.

Cordelia:[to Lear] I yet beseech your Majesty— If for I want that glib and oily art To speak and purpose not, since what I well intend I’ll do ’t before I speak—that you make known It is no vicious blot, murder, or foulness, No unchaste action or dishonored step That hath deprived me of your grace and favor, But even for want of that for which I am richer: A still-soliciting eye and such a tongue That I am glad I have not, though not to have it Hath lost me in your liking.

Lear:Better thou Hadst not been born than not t’ have pleased me better.

King of France:Is it but this—a tardiness in nature Which often leaves the history unspoke That it intends to do?—My lord of Burgundy, What say you to the lady? Love’s not love When it is mingled with regards that stands Aloof from th’ entire point. Will you have her? She is herself a dowry.

Duke of Burgundy:[to Lear] Royal king, Give but that portion which yourself proposed, And here I take Cordelia by the hand, Duchess of Burgundy.

Lear:Nothing. I have sworn. I am firm.

Duke of Burgundy:[to Cordelia] I am sorry, then, you have so lost a father That you must lose a husband.

Cordelia:Peace be with Burgundy. Since that respect and fortunes 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 enflamed respect.— Thy dowerless daughter, king, thrown to my chance, Is queen of us, of ours, and our fair France. Not all the dukes of wat’rish Burgundy Can buy this unprized precious maid of me.— Bid them farewell, Cordelia, though unkind. Thou losest here a better where to find.

Lear:Thou hast her, France. Let her be thine, for we Have no such daughter, nor shall ever see That face of hers again. [To Cordelia.] Therefore begone Without our grace, our love, our benison.— Come, noble Burgundy.

Flourish. All but France, Cordelia, Goneril, and Regan exit.

King of France:Bid farewell to your sisters.

Cordelia:The jewels of our father, with washed eyes Cordelia leaves you. I know you what you are, And like a sister am most loath to call Your faults as they are named. Love well our father. To your professèd bosoms I commit him; But yet, alas, stood I within his grace, I would prefer him to a better place. So farewell to you both.

Regan:Prescribe not us our duty.

Goneril:Let your study Be to content your lord, who hath received you At Fortune’s alms. You have obedience scanted And well are worth the want that you have wanted.

Cordelia:Time shall unfold what plighted cunning hides, Who covers faults at last with shame derides. Well may you prosper.

King of France:Come, my fair Cordelia.

France and Cordelia exit.

Goneril:Sister, it is not little I have to say of what most nearly appertains to us both. I think our father will hence tonight.

Regan:That’s most certain, and with you; next month with us.

Goneril:You see how full of changes his age is; the observation we have made of it hath not been little. He always loved our sister most, and with what poor judgment he hath now cast her off appears too grossly.

Regan:’Tis the infirmity of his age. Yet he hath ever but slenderly known himself.

Goneril:The best and soundest of his time hath been but rash. Then must we look from his age to receive not alone the imperfections of long-engraffed condition, but therewithal the unruly waywardness that infirm and choleric years bring with them.

Regan:Such unconstant starts are we like to have from him as this of Kent’s banishment.

Goneril:There is further compliment of leave-taking between France and him. Pray you, let us sit together. If our father carry authority with such disposition as he bears, this last surrender of his will but offend us.

Regan:We shall further think of it.

Goneril:We must do something, and i’ th’ heat.

They exit.

Scene 2

Enter Edmund, the Bastard.

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 moonshines 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 th’ 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 th’ legitimate. Fine word, "legitimate." Well, my legitimate, if this letter speed And my invention thrive, Edmund the base Shall top th’ legitimate. I grow, I prosper. Now, gods, stand up for bastards!

Enter Gloucester.

Earl of Gloucester:Kent banished thus? And France in choler parted? And the King gone tonight, prescribed his power, Confined to exhibition? All this done Upon the gad?—Edmund, how now? What news?

Edmund:So please your Lordship, none. [He puts a paper in his pocket.]

Earl of Gloucester:Why so earnestly seek you to put up that letter?

Edmund:I know no news, my lord.

Earl of Gloucester:What paper were you reading?

Edmund:Nothing, my lord.

Earl of 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’erread; and for so much as I have perused, I find it not fit for your o’erlooking.

Earl of 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.

Earl of Gloucester:Let’s see, let’s see.

Edmund gives him the paper.

Edmund:I hope, for my brother’s justification, he wrote this but as an essay or taste of my virtue.

Earl of 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 enjoy half his revenue forever and live the beloved of your brother. Edgar. Hum? Conspiracy? "Sleep till I wake 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 you to this? 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.

Earl of 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.

Earl of Gloucester:It is his.

Edmund:It is his hand, my lord, but I hope his heart is not in the contents.

Earl of Gloucester:Has he never before 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 declined, the father should be as ward to the son, and the son manage his revenue.

Earl of 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 should run a certain course; where, if you violently proceed against him, mistaking his purpose, it would make a great gap in your own honor and shake in pieces the heart of his obedience. I dare pawn down my life for him that he hath writ this to feel my affection to your Honor, and to no other pretense of danger.

Earl of Gloucester:Think you so?

Edmund:If your Honor 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.

Earl of Gloucester:He cannot be such a monster.

Edmund:Nor is not, sure.

Earl of 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.

Earl of 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. The King falls from bias of nature: there’s father against child. We have seen the best 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 noble and true-hearted Kent banished! His offense, honesty! ’Tis strange.

He exits.

Edmund:This is the excellent foppery of the world, that when we are sick in fortune (often the surfeits of our own behavior) we make guilty of our disasters the sun, the moon, and stars, as if we were villains on 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 on 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. Fut, 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 villainous 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 with 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: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 nor countenance?

Edgar:None at all.

Edmund:Bethink yourself wherein you may have offended him, and at my entreaty forbear his presence until 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 you go. There’s my key. If you do stir abroad, go armed.

Edgar:Armed, brother?

Edmund:Brother, I advise you to the best. I am no honest man if there be any good meaning toward 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. [Edgar exits.] A credulous father and a brother noble, Whose nature is so far from doing harms That he suspects none; on whose foolish honesty My practices 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.

He exits.

Scene 3

Enter Goneril and Oswald, her Steward.

Goneril:Did my father strike my gentleman for chiding of his Fool?

Oswald:Ay, 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.

Goneril:Put on what weary negligence you please, You and your fellows. I’d have it come to question. If he distaste it, let him to my sister, Whose mind and mine I know in that are one, Not to be overruled. 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 checks as flatteries, when they are seen abused. Remember what I have said.

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 my sister To hold my very course. Prepare for dinner.

They exit in different directions.

Scene 4

Enter Kent in disguise.

Earl of Kent:If but as well I other accents borrow That can my speech diffuse, my good intent May carry through itself to that full issue For which I razed my likeness. Now, banished Kent, If thou canst serve where thou dost stand condemned, So may it come thy master, whom thou lov’st, Shall find thee full of labors.

Horns within. Enter Lear, Knights, and Attendants.

Lear:Let me not stay a jot for dinner. Go get it ready. [An Attendant exits.] How now, what art thou?

Earl of Kent:A man, sir.

Lear:What dost thou profess? What wouldst thou with us?

Earl of 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.

Lear:What art thou?

Earl of Kent:A very honest-hearted fellow, and as poor as the King.

Lear:If thou be’st as poor for a subject as he’s for a king, thou art poor enough. What wouldst thou?

Earl of Kent:Service.

Lear:Who wouldst thou serve?

Earl of Kent:You.

Lear:Dost thou know me, fellow?

Earl of Kent:No, sir, but you have that in your countenance which I would fain call master.

Lear:What’s that?

Earl of Kent:Authority.

Lear:What services canst do?

Earl of 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.

Lear:How old art thou?

Earl of Kent:Not so young, sir, to love a woman for singing, nor so old to dote on her for anything. I have years on my back forty-eight.

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. [An Attendant exits.] [Enter Oswald, the Steward.] You, you, sirrah, where’s my daughter?

Oswald:So please you—

He exits.

Lear:What says the fellow there? Call the clotpole back. [A Knight exits.] Where’s my Fool? Ho! I think the world’s asleep. [Enter Knight again.] How now? Where’s that mongrel?

Knight:He says, my lord, your daughter is not well.

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.

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 dependents as in the Duke himself also, and your daughter.

Lear:Ha? Sayst 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.

Lear:Thou but remembrest 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 pretense 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.

Lear:No more of that. I have noted it well.—Go you and tell my daughter I would speak with her. [An Attendant exits.] Go you call hither my Fool. [Another exits.] [Enter Oswald, the Steward.] O you, sir, you, come you hither, sir. Who am I, sir?

Oswald:My lady’s father.

Lear:"My lady’s father"? My lord’s knave! You whoreson dog, you slave, you cur!

Oswald:I am none of these, my lord, I beseech your pardon.

Lear:Do you bandy looks with me, you rascal?

Lear strikes him.

Oswald:I’ll not be strucken, my lord.

Earl of Kent:[tripping him] Nor tripped neither, you base football player?

Lear:I thank thee, fellow. Thou serv’st me, and I’ll love thee.

Earl of Kent:[to Oswald] 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.

Oswald exits.

Lear:Now, my friendly knave, I thank thee. There’s earnest of thy service.

He gives Kent a purse.

Enter Fool.

Fool:Let me hire him too. [To Kent.] Here’s my coxcomb.

He offers Kent his cap.

Lear:How now, my pretty knave, how dost thou?

Fool:[to Kent] Sirrah, you were best take my coxcomb.

Lear:Why, my boy?

Fool:Why? For taking one’s part that’s out of favor. [To Kent.] Nay, an thou canst not smile as the wind sits, thou ’lt catch cold shortly. There, take my coxcomb. Why, this fellow has banished two on ’s daughters and did the third a blessing against his will. If thou follow him, thou must needs wear my coxcomb.—How now, nuncle? Would I had two coxcombs and two daughters.

Lear:Why, my boy?

Fool:If I gave them all my living, I’d keep my coxcombs myself. There’s mine. Beg another of thy daughters.

Lear:Take heed, sirrah—the whip.

Fool:Truth’s a dog must to kennel; he must be whipped out, when the Lady Brach may stand by th’ fire and stink.

Lear:A pestilent gall to me!

Fool:Sirrah, I’ll teach thee a speech.

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.

Earl of 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?

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.

Lear:A bitter Fool!

Fool:Dost know the difference, my boy, between a bitter fool and a sweet one?

Lear:No, lad, teach me.

Fool:That lord that counseled 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.

Lear:Dost thou call me "fool," boy?

Fool:All thy other titles thou hast given away. That thou wast born with.

Earl of 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 the fool to myself; they’ll be snatching.—Nuncle, give me an egg, and I’ll give thee two crowns.

Lear:What two crowns shall they be?

Fool:Why, after I have cut the egg i’ th’ middle and eat up the meat, the two crowns of the egg. When thou clovest thy crown i’ th’ 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. [Sings.] 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, [Sings.] 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’ th’ 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’ th’ 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 crumb, Weary of all, shall want some. [He points at Lear.] That’s a shelled 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-endurèd 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 offense, 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:I would you would make use of your good wisdom, Whereof I know you are fraught, and put away These dispositions which of late transport you From what you rightly are.

Fool:May not an ass know when the cart draws the horse? Whoop, Jug, I love thee!

Lear:Does any here know me? This is not Lear. Does 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’ th’ savor Of other your new pranks. I do beseech you To understand my purposes aright. As you are old and reverend, should be wise. Here do you keep a hundred knights and squires, Men so disordered, so debauched 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 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 remainders 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. [Some exit.] Degenerate bastard, I’ll not trouble thee. Yet have I left a daughter.

Goneril:You strike my people, and your disordered rabble Make servants of their betters.

Enter Albany.

Lear:Woe that too late repents!—O, sir, are you come? Is it your will? Speak, sir.—Prepare my horses. [Some exit.] Ingratitude, thou marble-hearted fiend, More hideous when thou show’st thee in a child Than the sea monster!

Duke of 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, wrenched my frame of nature From the fixed place, drew from my heart all love And added to the gall! O Lear, Lear, Lear! [He strikes his head.] Beat at this gate that let thy folly in And thy dear judgment out. Go, go, my people.

Some exit.

Duke of 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 honor 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!

Lear and the rest of his train exit.

Duke of 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 As dotage gives it.

Enter Lear and the Fool.

Lear:What, fifty of my followers at a clap? Within a fortnight?

Duke of Albany:What’s the matter, sir?

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! Th’ untented woundings of a father’s curse Pierce every sense about thee! Old fond eyes, Beweep this cause again, I’ll pluck you out And cast you, with the waters that you loose, To temper clay. Yea, is ’t come to this? 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 forever.

He exits.

Goneril:Do you mark that?

Duke of Albany:I cannot be so partial, Goneril, To the great love I bear you—

Goneril:Pray you, content.—What, Oswald, ho!— You, sir, more knave than Fool, after your master.

Fool:Nuncle Lear, Nuncle Lear, tarry. 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.

He exits.

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!

Duke of 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 uttered I have writ my sister. If she sustain him and his hundred knights When I have showed th’ unfitness— [Enter Oswald, the Steward.] 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. [Oswald exits.] No, no, my lord, This milky gentleness and course of yours, Though I condemn not, yet, under pardon, You are much more at task for want of wisdom Than praised for harmful mildness.

Duke of Albany:How far your eyes may pierce I cannot tell. Striving to better, oft we mar what’s well.

Goneril:Nay, then—

Duke of Albany:Well, well, th’ event.

They exit.

Scene 5

Enter Lear, Kent in disguise, Gentleman, and Fool.

Lear:[to Kent] 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.

Earl of Kent:I will not sleep, my lord, till I have delivered your letter.

He exits.

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 will taste as like this as a crab does to a crab. Thou canst tell why one’s nose stands i’ th’ 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?

Gentleman exits.

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 take ’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.

They exit.

Act 2

Scene 1

Enter Edmund, the Bastard and Curan, severally.

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.

He exits.

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’ th’ night, i’ th’ 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. [They draw.] Yield! Come before my father! Light, hoa, here! [Aside to Edgar.] Fly, brother.—Torches, torches! —So, farewell. [Edgar exits.] Some blood drawn on me would beget opinion Of my more fierce endeavor. I have seen drunkards Do more than this in sport. [He wounds his arm.] Father, father! Stop, stop! No help?

Enter Gloucester, and Servants with torches.

Earl of 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.

Earl of Gloucester:But where is he?

Edmund:Look, sir, I bleed.

Earl of Gloucester:Where is the villain, Edmund?

Edmund:Fled this way, sir, when by no means he could—

Earl of Gloucester:Pursue him, ho! Go after. [Servants exit.] 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 the thunder bend, Spoke with how manifold and strong a bond The child was bound to th’ father—sir, in fine, Seeing how loathly opposite I stood To his unnatural purpose, in fell motion With his preparèd sword he charges home My unprovided body, lanced mine arm; And when he saw my best alarumed spirits, Bold in the quarrel’s right, roused to th’ encounter, Or whether ghasted by the noise I made, Full suddenly he fled.

Earl of 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 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 threatened 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 faithed? No. What I should deny— As this I would, though thou didst produce My very character—I’d turn it all To thy suggestion, plot, and damnèd 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."

Earl of Gloucester:O strange and fastened 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.

Duke of 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?

Earl of Gloucester:O madam, my old heart is cracked; it’s cracked.

Regan:What, did my father’s godson seek your life? He whom my father named, your Edgar?

Earl of Gloucester:O lady, lady, shame would have it hid!

Regan:Was he not companion with the riotous knights That tended upon my father?

Earl of 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 th’ expense and waste of his revenues. I have this present evening from my sister Been well informed of them, and with such cautions That if they come to sojourn at my house I’ll not be there.

Duke of Cornwall:Nor I, assure thee, Regan.— Edmund, I hear that you have shown your father A childlike office.

Edmund:It was my duty, sir.

Earl of Gloucester:He did bewray his practice, and received This hurt you see striving to apprehend him.

Duke of Cornwall:Is he pursued?

Earl of Gloucester:Ay, my good lord.

Duke of Cornwall:If he be taken, he shall never more Be feared 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.

Earl of Gloucester:For him I thank your Grace.

Duke of 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 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 businesses, Which craves the instant use.

Earl of Gloucester:I serve you, madam. Your Graces are right welcome.

Flourish. They exit.

Scene 2

Enter Kent in disguise and Oswald, the Steward, severally.

Oswald:Good dawning to thee, friend. Art of this house?

Earl of Kent:Ay.

Oswald:Where may we set our horses?

Earl of Kent:I’ th’ mire.

Oswald:Prithee, if thou lov’st me, tell me.

Earl of Kent:I love thee not.

Oswald:Why then, I care not for thee.

Earl of 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.

Earl of Kent:Fellow, I know thee.

Oswald:What dost thou know me for?

Earl of Kent:A knave, a rascal, an eater of broken meats; a base, proud, shallow, beggarly, three-suited, hundred-pound, filthy worsted-stocking knave; a lily-livered, action-taking, whoreson, glass-gazing, superserviceable, finical rogue; one-trunk-inheriting slave; one that wouldst be a bawd in way of good service, and art nothing but the composition of a knave, beggar, coward, pander, and the son and heir of a mongrel bitch; one whom I will beat into clamorous whining if thou deny’st 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!

Earl of 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? [He draws his sword.] Draw, you rogue, for though it be night, yet the moon shines. I’ll make a sop o’ th’ moonshine of you, you whoreson, cullionly barbermonger. Draw!

Oswald:Away! I have nothing to do with thee.

Earl of 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!

Earl of Kent:Strike, you slave! Stand, rogue! Stand, you neat slave! Strike!

He beats Oswald.

Oswald:Help, ho! Murder, murder!

Enter Bastard Edmund, with his rapier drawn, Cornwall, Regan, Gloucester, Servants.

Edmund:How now, what’s the matter? Part!

Earl of Kent:With you, goodman boy, if you please. Come, I’ll flesh you. Come on, young master.

Earl of Gloucester:Weapons? Arms? What’s the matter here?

Duke of Cornwall:Keep peace, upon your lives! He dies that strikes again. What is the matter?

Regan:The messengers from our sister and the King.

Duke of Cornwall:What is your difference? Speak.

Oswald:I am scarce in breath, my lord.

Earl of Kent:No marvel, you have so bestirred your valor. You cowardly rascal, nature disclaims in thee; a tailor made thee.

Duke of Cornwall:Thou art a strange fellow. A tailor make a man?

Earl of Kent:A tailor, sir. A stonecutter or a painter could not have made him so ill, though they had been but two years o’ th’ trade.

Duke of Cornwall:Speak yet, how grew your quarrel?

Oswald:This ancient ruffian, sir, whose life I have spared at suit of his gray beard—

Earl of 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?

Duke of Cornwall:Peace, sirrah! You beastly knave, know you no reverence?

Earl of Kent:Yes, sir, but anger hath a privilege.

Duke of Cornwall:Why art thou angry?

Earl of 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 atwain Which are too intrinse t’ unloose; smooth every passion That in the natures of their lords rebel— Being oil to fire, snow to the 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 you cackling home to Camelot.

Duke of Cornwall:What, art thou mad, old fellow?

Earl of Gloucester:How fell you out? Say that.

Earl of Kent:No contraries hold more antipathy Than I and such a knave.

Duke of Cornwall:Why dost thou call him "knave"? What is his fault?

Earl of Kent:His countenance likes me not.

Duke of Cornwall:No more, perchance, does mine, nor his, nor hers.

Earl of 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.

Duke of 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 Harbor more craft and more corrupter ends Than twenty silly-ducking observants That stretch their duties nicely.

Earl of Kent:Sir, in good faith, in sincere verity, Under th’ allowance of your great aspect, Whose influence, like the wreath of radiant fire On flick’ring Phoebus’ front—

Duke of Cornwall:What mean’st by this?

Earl of 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.

Duke of Cornwall:[to Oswald] What was th’ offense 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, compact, and flattering his displeasure, Tripped me behind; being down, insulted, railed, 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.

Earl of Kent:None of these rogues and cowards But Ajax is their fool.

Duke of Cornwall:Fetch forth the stocks.— You stubborn ancient knave, you reverent braggart, We’ll teach you.

Earl of 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.

Duke of Cornwall:Fetch forth the stocks.—As I have life and honor, There shall he sit till noon.

Regan:Till noon? Till night, my lord, and all night, too.

Earl of Kent:Why, madam, if I were your father’s dog, You should not use me so.

Regan:Sir, being his knave, I will.

Duke of Cornwall:This is a fellow of the selfsame color Our sister speaks of.—Come, bring away the stocks.

Stocks brought out.

Earl of 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 purposed low correction Is such as basest and contemned’st wretches For pilf’rings and most common trespasses Are punished with. The King must take it ill That he, so slightly valued in his messenger, Should have him thus restrained.

Duke of 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.

Duke of Cornwall:Come, my good lord, away.

All but Gloucester and Kent exit.

Earl of Gloucester:I am sorry for thee, friend. ’Tis the Duke’s pleasure, Whose disposition all the world well knows Will not be rubbed nor stopped. I’ll entreat for thee.

Earl of Kent:Pray, do not, sir. I have watched and traveled 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.

Earl of Gloucester:The Duke’s to blame in this. ’Twill be ill taken.

He exits.

Earl of Kent:Good king, that must approve the common saw, Thou out of heaven’s benediction com’st To the warm sun. [He takes out a paper.] 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 informed Of my obscurèd course, and shall find time From this enormous state, seeking to give Losses their remedies. All weary and o’erwatched, Take vantage, heavy eyes, not to behold This shameful lodging. Fortune, good night. Smile once more; turn thy wheel.

Sleeps.

Scene 3

Enter Edgar.

Edgar:I heard myself proclaimed, 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 hairs 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 numbed and mortifièd arms Pins, wooden pricks, nails, sprigs of rosemary, And, with this horrible object, from low farms, Poor pelting villages, sheepcotes, and mills, Sometime with lunatic bans, sometime with prayers, Enforce their charity. "Poor Turlygod! Poor Tom!" That’s something yet. "Edgar" I nothing am.

He exits.

Scene 4

Enter Lear, Fool, and Gentleman.

Lear:’Tis strange that they should so depart from home And not send back my messenger.

Gentleman:As I learned, The night before there was no purpose in them Of this remove.

Earl of Kent:[waking] Hail to thee, noble master.

Lear:Ha? Mak’st thou this shame thy pastime?

Earl of Kent:No, my lord.

Fool:Ha, ha, he wears cruel garters. Horses are tied by the heads, dogs and bears by th’ neck, monkeys by th’ loins, and men by th’ legs. When a man’s overlusty at legs, then he wears wooden netherstocks.

Lear:What’s he that hath so much thy place mistook To set thee here?

Earl of Kent:It is both he and she, Your son and daughter.

Lear:No.

Earl of Kent:Yes.

Lear:No, I say.

Earl of Kent:I say yea.

Lear:By Jupiter, I swear no.

Earl of 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 might’st deserve or they impose this usage, Coming from us.

Earl of Kent:My lord, when at their home I did commend your Highness’ letters to them, Ere I was risen from the place that showed My duty kneeling, came there a reeking post, Stewed in his haste, half breathless, panting forth From Goneril his mistress salutations; Delivered letters, spite of intermission, Which presently they read; on whose contents They summoned 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 poisoned mine, Being the very fellow which of late Displayed 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 th’ poor. But, for all this, thou shalt have as many dolors 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?

Earl of Kent:With the Earl, sir, here within.

Lear:[to Fool and Gentleman] Follow me not. Stay here.

He exits.

Gentleman:Made you no more offense but what you speak of?

Earl of Kent:None. How chance the King comes with so small a number?

Fool:An thou hadst been set i’ th’ stocks for that question, thou ’dst well deserved it.

Earl of Kent:Why, Fool?

Fool:We’ll set thee to school to an ant to teach thee there’s no laboring i’ th’ 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; 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, perdie.

Earl of Kent:Where learned you this, Fool?

Fool:Not i’ th’ stocks, fool.

Enter Lear and Gloucester.

Lear:Deny to speak with me? They are sick? They are weary? They have traveled all the night? Mere fetches, The images of revolt and flying off. Fetch me a better answer.

Earl of Gloucester:My dear lord, You know the fiery quality of the Duke, How unremovable and fixed 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.

Earl of Gloucester:Well, my good lord, I have informed them so.

Lear:"Informed them"? Dost thou understand me, man?

Earl of 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 "informed" 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 oppressed, commands the mind To suffer with the body. I’ll forbear, And am fallen out with my more headier will, To take the indisposed and sickly fit For the sound man. [Noticing Kent again.] 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.

Earl of Gloucester:I would have all well betwixt you.

He exits.

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’ th’ paste alive. She knapped ’em o’ th’ 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, Servants.

Lear:Good morrow to you both.

Duke of 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, Sepulch’ring an adult’ress. [To Kent.] O, are you free? Some other time for that.—Belovèd Regan, Thy sister’s naught. O Regan, she hath tied Sharp-toothed unkindness, like a vulture, here. 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.

Lear:Say? How is that?

Regan:I cannot think my sister in the least Would fail her obligation. If, sir, perchance She have restrained 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 his 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 wronged her.

Lear:Ask her forgiveness? Do you but mark how this becomes the house: [He kneels.] "Dear daughter, I confess that I am old. 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, Looked black upon me, struck me with her tongue Most serpentlike upon the very heart. All the stored vengeances of heaven fall On her ingrateful top! Strike her young bones, You taking airs, with lameness!

Duke of Cornwall:Fie, sir, fie!

Lear:You nimble lightnings, dart your blinding flames Into her scornful eyes! Infect her beauty, You fen-sucked fogs drawn by the powerful sun To fall and blister!

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’ th’ kingdom hast thou not forgot, Wherein I thee endowed.

Regan:Good sir, to th’ purpose.

Tucket within.

Lear:Who put my man i’ th’ stocks?

Duke of Cornwall:What trumpet’s that?

Regan:I know ’t—my sister’s. This approves her letter, That she would soon be here. [Enter Oswald, the Steward.] 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!

Duke of Cornwall:What means your Grace?

Lear:Who stocked my servant? Regan, I have good hope Thou didst not know on ’t. [Enter Goneril.] Who comes here? O heavens, If you do love old men, if your sweet sway Allow obedience, if you yourselves are old, Make it your cause. Send down and take my part. [To Goneril.] Art not ashamed to look upon this beard? [Regan takes Goneril’s hand.] O Regan, will you take her by the hand?

Goneril:Why not by th’ hand, sir? How have I offended? All’s not offense that indiscretion finds And dotage terms so.

Lear:O sides, you are too tough! Will you yet hold?—How came my man i’ th’ stocks?

Duke of Cornwall:I set him there, sir, but his own disorders Deserved 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 dismissed? No! Rather I abjure all roofs, and choose To wage against the enmity o’ th’ 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.

He indicates 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 embossèd 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 looked 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 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.

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-favored 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. I have full cause of weeping, but this heart [Storm and tempest.] Shall break into a hundred thousand flaws Or ere I’ll weep.—O Fool, I shall go mad!

Lear, Kent, and Fool exit with Gloucester and the Gentleman.

Duke of Cornwall:Let us withdraw. ’Twill be a storm.

Regan:This house is little. The old man and ’s people Cannot be well bestowed.

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?

Duke of Cornwall:Followed the old man forth. [Enter Gloucester.] He is returned.

Earl of Gloucester:The King is in high rage.

Duke of Cornwall:Whither is he going?

Earl of Gloucester:He calls to horse, but will I know not whither.

Duke of Cornwall:’Tis best to give him way. He leads himself.

Goneril:[to Gloucester] My lord, entreat him by no means to stay.

Earl of 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 willful 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.

Duke of Cornwall:Shut up your doors, my lord. ’Tis a wild night. My Regan counsels well. Come out o’ th’ storm.

They exit.

Act 3

Scene 1

Storm still. Enter Kent in disguise, and a Gentleman, severally.

Earl of Kent:Who’s there, besides foul weather?

Gentleman:One minded like the weather, most unquietly.

Earl of 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 curlèd 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-pinchèd wolf Keep their fur dry, unbonneted he runs And bids what will take all.

Earl of Kent:But who is with him?

Gentleman:None but the Fool, who labors to outjest His heart-struck injuries.

Earl of 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 is covered With mutual cunning, ’twixt Albany and Cornwall, Who have—as who have not, that their great stars Throned and set high?—servants, who seem no less, Which are to France the spies and speculations Intelligent of our state. From France there comes a power Into this scattered 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: what hath been seen, Either in snuffs and packings of the dukes, Or the hard rein which both of them hath borne Against the old kind king, or something deeper, Whereof perchance these are but furnishings. 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.

Earl of Kent:No, do not. For confirmation that I am much more Than my outwall, open this purse and take What it contains. [Kent hands him a purse and a ring.] If you shall see Cordelia (As fear not but you shall), show her this ring, And she will tell you who that 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?

Earl of 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.

They exit separately.

Scene 2

Storm still. Enter Lear and Fool.

Lear:Blow winds, and crack your cheeks! Rage, blow! You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout Till you have drenched our steeples, drowned the cocks. You sulph’rous and thought-executing fires, Vaunt-couriers of oak-cleaving thunderbolts, Singe my white head. And thou, all-shaking thunder, Strike flat the thick rotundity o’ th’ world. Crack nature’s molds, all germens spill at once That makes ingrateful man.

Fool:O nuncle, court holy water in a dry house is better than this rainwater out o’ door. Good nuncle, in. 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, called you children; You owe me no subscription. Then let fall Your horrible pleasure. Here I stand your slave, A poor, infirm, weak, and despised old man. But yet I call you servile ministers, That will with two pernicious daughters join Your high-engendered battles ’gainst a head So old and white as this. O, ho, ’tis foul!

Fool:He that has a house to put ’s head in has a good headpiece. 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 in disguise.

Earl of Kent:Who’s there?

Fool:Marry, here’s grace and a codpiece; that’s a wise man and a fool.

Earl of 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 undivulgèd crimes Unwhipped of justice. Hide thee, thou bloody hand, Thou perjured, and thou simular of virtue That art incestuous. Caitiff, to pieces shake, That under covert and convenient seeming Has practiced on man’s life. Close pent-up guilts, Rive your concealing continents and cry These dreadful summoners grace. I am a man More sinned against than sinning.

Earl of Kent:Alack, bareheaded? Gracious my lord, hard by here is a hovel. Some friendship will it lend you ’gainst the tempest. Repose you there while I to this hard house— More harder than the stones whereof ’tis raised, 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 And 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:[sings] He that has and a little tiny wit, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, Must make content with his fortunes fit, Though the rain it raineth every day.

Lear:True, my good boy.—Come, bring us to this hovel.

Lear and Kent exit.

Fool:This is a brave night to cool a courtesan. 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 burned 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 cutpurses come not to throngs, When usurers tell their gold i’ th’ 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 used with feet. This prophecy Merlin shall make, for I live before his time.

He exits.

Scene 3

Enter Gloucester and Edmund.

Earl of 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.

Earl of 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 is 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 strange things toward, Edmund. Pray you, be careful.

He exits.

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.

He exits.

Scene 4

Enter Lear, Kent in disguise, and Fool.

Earl of Kent:Here is the place, my lord. Good my lord, enter. The tyranny of the open night ’s too rough For nature to endure.

Storm still.

Lear:Let me alone.

Earl of Kent:Good my lord, enter here.

Lear:Wilt break my heart?

Earl of 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 fixed, The lesser is scarce felt. Thou ’dst shun a bear, But if thy flight lay toward the roaring sea, Thou ’dst meet the bear i’ th’ mouth. When the mind’s free, The body’s delicate. This 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.

Earl of 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.— In, boy; go first.—You houseless poverty— Nay, get thee in. I’ll pray, and then I’ll sleep. [Fool exits.] Poor naked wretches, wheresoe’er you are, That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm, How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides, Your looped and windowed 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 may’st shake the superflux to them And show the heavens more just.

Edgar:[within] Fathom and half, fathom and half! Poor Tom!

Enter Fool.

Fool:Come not in here, nuncle; here’s a spirit. Help me, help me!

Earl of Kent:Give me thy hand. Who’s there?

Fool:A spirit, a spirit! He says his name’s Poor Tom.

Earl of Kent:What art thou that dost grumble there i’ th’ straw? Come forth.

Enter Edgar in disguise.

Edgar:Away. The foul fiend follows me. Through the sharp hawthorn blows the cold wind. Hum! Go to thy cold bed and warm thee.

Lear:Didst thou give all to thy 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 still.

Lear:Has his daughters brought him to this pass?— Couldst thou save nothing? Wouldst thou give ’em all?

Fool:Nay, he reserved 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!

Earl of Kent:He hath no daughters, sir.

Lear:Death, traitor! Nothing could have subdued 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’s justice, 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 servingman, 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-paramoured 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 lenders’ books, 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.

Lear:Thou wert better in a grave than to answer with thy uncovered body this extremity of the skies.—Is man no more than this? Consider him well.—Thou ow’st 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.

Tearing 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. [Enter Gloucester, with a torch.] 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 ninefold, Bid her alight, And her troth plight, And aroint thee, witch, aroint thee.

Earl of Kent:How fares your Grace?

Lear:What’s he?

Earl of Kent:Who’s there? What is ’t you seek?

Earl of Gloucester:What are you there? Your names?

Edgar:Poor Tom, that eats the swimming frog, the toad, the tadpole, 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!

Earl of Gloucester:[to Lear] What, hath your Grace no better company?

Edgar:The Prince of Darkness is a gentleman. Modo he’s called, and Mahu.

Earl of Gloucester:[to Lear] Our flesh and blood, my lord, is grown so vile That it doth hate what gets it.

Edgar:Poor Tom’s a-cold.

Earl of Gloucester:[to Lear] 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 ventured to come seek you out And bring you where both fire and food is ready.

Lear:First let me talk with this philosopher. [To Edgar.] What is the cause of thunder?

Earl of Kent:Good my lord, take his offer; go into th’ house.

Lear:I’ll talk a word with this same learnèd Theban.— What is your study?

Edgar:How to prevent the fiend and to kill vermin.

Lear:Let me ask you one word in private.

They talk aside.

Earl of Kent:[to Gloucester] Importune him once more to go, my lord. His wits begin t’ unsettle.

Earl of Gloucester:Canst thou blame him? [Storm still.] His daughters seek his death. Ah, that good Kent! He said it would be thus, poor banished man. Thou sayest the King grows mad; I’ll tell thee, friend, I am almost mad myself. I had a son, Now outlawed from my blood. He sought my life But lately, very late. I loved him, friend, No father his son dearer. True to tell thee, The grief hath crazed my wits. What a night’s this! —I do beseech your Grace—

Lear:O, cry you mercy, sir. [To Edgar.] Noble philosopher, your company.

Edgar:Tom’s a-cold.

Earl of Gloucester:[to Edgar] In fellow, there, into th’ hovel. Keep thee warm.

Lear:Come, let’s in all.

Earl of Kent:This way, my lord.

Lear:[indicating Edgar] With him. I will keep still with my philosopher.

Earl of Kent:[to Gloucester] Good my lord, soothe him. Let him take the fellow.

Earl of Gloucester:[to Kent] Take him you on.

Earl of Kent:[to Edgar] Sirrah, come on: go along with us.

Lear:Come, good Athenian.

Earl of 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."

They exit.

Scene 5

Enter Cornwall, and Edmund with a paper.

Duke of 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.

Duke of Cornwall:I now perceive it was not altogether your brother’s evil disposition made him seek his death, but a provoking merit set awork by a reprovable 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.

Duke of Cornwall:Go with me to the Duchess.

Edmund:If the matter of this paper be certain, you have mighty business in hand.

Duke of 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 persevere in my course of loyalty, though the conflict be sore between that and my blood.

Duke of Cornwall:I will lay trust upon thee, and thou shalt find a dearer father in my love.

They exit.

Scene 6

Enter Kent in disguise, and Gloucester.

Earl of 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.

Earl of Kent:All the power of his wits have given way to his impatience. The gods reward your kindness!

Gloucester exits.

Enter Lear, Edgar in disguise, and Fool.

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 learnèd justice. [To Fool.] Thou sapient sir, sit here. Now, you she-foxes—

Edgar:Look where he stands and glares!—Want’st thou eyes at trial, madam? [Sings.] Come o’er the burn, Bessy, to me—

Fool:[sings] 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.

Earl of Kent:[to Lear] How do you, sir? Stand you not so amazed. Will you lie down and rest upon the cushions?

Lear:I’ll see their trial first. Bring in their evidence. [To Edgar.] Thou robèd man of justice, take thy place, [To Fool.] And thou, his yokefellow of equity, Bench by his side. [To Kent.] You are o’ th’ commission; Sit you, too.

Edgar:Let us deal justly. [Sings.] 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 gray.

Lear:Arraign her first; ’tis Goneril. I here take my oath before this honorable assembly, 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 warped 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!

Earl of Kent:[to Lear] 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, Tray, 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 lym, Bobtail tike, or trundle-tail, Tom will make him weep and wail; For, with throwing thus my head, Dogs leapt 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 make these hard hearts? [To Edgar.] You, sir, I entertain for one of my hundred; only I do not like the fashion of your garments. You will say they are Persian, but let them be changed.

Earl of Kent:Now, good my lord, lie here and rest awhile.

Lear:[lying down] Make no noise, make no noise. Draw the curtains. So, so, we’ll go to supper i’ th’ morning.

Fool:And I’ll go to bed at noon.

Enter Gloucester.

Earl of Gloucester:[to Kent] Come hither, friend. Where is the King my master?

Earl of Kent:Here, sir, but trouble him not; his wits are gone.

Earl of 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 toward 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 assurèd loss. Take up, take up, And follow me, that will to some provision Give thee quick conduct.

Earl of Kent:Oppressèd nature sleeps. This rest might yet have balmed thy broken sinews, Which, if convenience will not allow, Stand in hard cure. [To the Fool.] Come, help to bear thy master. Thou must not stay behind.

Earl of Gloucester:Come, come away.

All but Edgar exit, carrying Lear.

Edgar:When we our betters see bearing our woes, We scarcely think our miseries our foes. Who alone suffers suffers most i’ th’ 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.

He exits.

Scene 7

Enter Cornwall, Regan, Goneril, Edmund, the Bastard, and Servants.

Duke of Cornwall:[to Goneril] Post speedily to my lord your husband. Show him this letter. [He gives her a paper.] The army of France is landed.—Seek out the traitor Gloucester.

Some Servants exit.

Regan:Hang him instantly.

Goneril:Pluck out his eyes.

Duke of 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, the Steward.] How now? Where’s the King?

Oswald:My lord of Gloucester hath conveyed 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 dependents, Are gone with him toward Dover, where they boast To have well-armèd friends.

Duke of Cornwall:Get horses for your mistress.

Oswald exits.

Goneril:Farewell, sweet lord, and sister.

Duke of Cornwall:Edmund, farewell. [Goneril and Edmund exit.] Go seek the traitor Gloucester. Pinion him like a thief; bring him before us. [Some Servants exit.] Though well we may not pass upon his life Without the form of justice, yet our power Shall do a court’sy to our wrath, which men May blame but not control. [Enter Gloucester and Servants.] Who’s there? The traitor?

Regan:Ingrateful fox! ’Tis he.

Duke of Cornwall:Bind fast his corky arms.

Earl of Gloucester:What means your Graces? Good my friends, consider You are my guests; do me no foul play, friends.

Duke of Cornwall:Bind him, I say.

Regan:Hard, hard. O filthy traitor!

Earl of Gloucester:Unmerciful lady as you are, I’m none.

Duke of Cornwall:To this chair bind him. [Servants bind Gloucester.] Villain, thou shalt find—

Regan plucks Gloucester’s beard.

Earl of Gloucester:By the kind gods, ’tis most ignobly done To pluck me by the beard.

Regan:So white, and such a traitor?

Earl of 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 favors You should not ruffle thus. What will you do?

Duke of Cornwall:Come, sir, what letters had you late from France?

Regan:Be simple-answered, for we know the truth.

Duke of Cornwall:And what confederacy have you with the traitors Late footed in the kingdom?

Regan:To whose hands You have sent the lunatic king. Speak.

Earl of Gloucester:I have a letter guessingly set down Which came from one that’s of a neutral heart, And not from one opposed.

Duke of Cornwall:Cunning.

Regan:And false.

Duke of Cornwall:Where hast thou sent the King?

Earl of Gloucester:To Dover.

Regan:Wherefore to Dover? Wast thou not charged at peril—

Duke of Cornwall:Wherefore to Dover? Let him answer that.

Earl of Gloucester:I am tied to th’ stake, and I must stand the course.

Regan:Wherefore to Dover?

Earl of 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 endured, would have buoyed up And quenched the stellèd fires; Yet, poor old heart, he holp the heavens to rain. If wolves had at thy gate howled that stern time, Thou shouldst have said "Good porter, turn the key." All cruels else subscribe. But I shall see The wingèd vengeance overtake such children.

Duke of Cornwall:See ’t shalt thou never.—Fellows, hold the chair.— Upon these eyes of thine I’ll set my foot.

Earl of Gloucester:He that will think to live till he be old, Give me some help! [As Servants hold the chair, Cornwall forces out one of Gloucester’s eyes.] O cruel! O you gods!

Regan:One side will mock another. Th’ other too.

Duke of Cornwall:If you see vengeance—

First Servant:Hold your hand, my lord. I have served 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?

Duke of Cornwall:My villain?

Draw and fight.

First Servant:Nay, then, come on, and take the chance of anger.

Regan:[to an Attendant] Give me thy sword. A peasant stand up thus?

She takes a sword and runs at him behind; kills him.

First Servant:O, I am slain! My lord, you have one eye left To see some mischief on him. O!

He dies.

Duke of Cornwall:Lest it see more, prevent it. Out, vile jelly! [Forcing out Gloucester’s other eye.] Where is thy luster now?

Earl of 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.

Earl of Gloucester:O my follies! Then Edgar was abused. Kind gods, forgive me that, and prosper him.

Regan:Go thrust him out at gates, and let him smell His way to Dover. [Some Servants exit with Gloucester.] How is ’t, my lord? How look you?

Duke of Cornwall:I have received 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.

Cornwall and Regan exit.

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!

They exit.

Act 4

Scene 1

Enter Edgar in disguise.

Edgar:Yet better thus, and known to be contemned, Than still contemned and flattered. 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. But who comes here? [Enter Gloucester and an old man.] 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.

Earl of Gloucester:Away, get thee away. Good friend, begone. Thy comforts can do me no good at all; Thee they may hurt.

Old Man:You cannot see your way.

Earl of 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 abusèd 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?

Earl of Gloucester:Is it a beggar-man?

Old Man:Madman and beggar too.

Earl of Gloucester:He has some reason, else he could not beg. I’ th’ 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 th’ gods; They kill us for their sport.

Edgar:[aside] How should this be? Bad is the trade that must play fool to sorrow, Ang’ring itself and others.—Bless thee, master.

Earl of Gloucester:Is that the naked fellow?

Old Man:Ay, my lord.

Earl of Gloucester:Then, prithee, get thee away. If for my sake Thou wilt o’ertake us hence a mile or twain I’ th’ 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.

Earl of Gloucester:’Tis the time’s plague when madmen lead the blind. Do as I bid thee, or rather do thy pleasure. Above the rest, begone.

Old Man:I’ll bring him the best ’parel that I have, Come on ’t what will.

He exits.

Earl of Gloucester:Sirrah, naked fellow—

Edgar:Poor Tom’s a-cold. [Aside.] I cannot daub it further.

Earl of Gloucester:Come hither, fellow.

Edgar:[aside] And yet I must.—Bless thy sweet eyes, they bleed.

Earl of 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; Hobbididance, prince of dumbness; Mahu, of stealing; Modo, of murder; Flibbertigibbet, of mopping and mowing, who since possesses chambermaids and waiting women. So, bless thee, master.

Earl of Gloucester:[giving him money] Here, take this purse, thou whom the heavens’ 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.

Earl of Gloucester:There is a cliff, whose high and bending head Looks fearfully in the confinèd 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.

They exit.

Scene 2

Enter Goneril and Edmund, the Bastard.

Goneril:Welcome, my lord. I marvel our mild husband Not met us on the way. [Enter Oswald, the Steward.] Now, where’s your master?

Oswald:Madam, within, but never man so changed. I told him of the army that was landed; He smiled 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 informed him, then he called me "sot" And told me I had turned 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. Wear this; spare speech. [She gives him a favor.] Decline your head. [She kisses him.] 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.

He exits.

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.

He exits.

Enter Albany.

Goneril:I have been worth the whistle.

Duke of 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.

Duke of Albany:Wisdom and goodness to the vile seem vile. Filths savor but themselves. What have you done? Tigers, not daughters, what have you performed? A father, and a gracious agèd man, Whose reverence even the head-lugged 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 benefited! If that the heavens do not their visible spirits Send quickly down to tame these vile offenses, It will come: Humanity must perforce prey on itself, Like monsters of the deep.

Goneril:Milk-livered man, That bear’st a cheek for blows, a head for wrongs; Who hast not in thy brows an eye discerning Thine honor from thy suffering; that not know’st Fools do those villains pity who are punished Ere they have done their mischief. Where’s thy drum? France spreads his banners in our noiseless land, With plumèd helm thy state begins to threat, Whilst thou, a moral fool, sits still and cries "Alack, why does he so?"

Duke of Albany:See thyself, devil! Proper deformity shows not in the fiend So horrid as in woman.

Goneril:O vain fool!

Duke of Albany:Thou changèd and self-covered thing, for shame Bemonster 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.

Duke of 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.

Duke of Albany:Gloucester’s eyes?

Messenger:A servant that he bred, thrilled with remorse, Opposed against the act, bending his sword To his great master, who, thereat enraged, Flew on him and amongst them felled him dead, But not without that harmful stroke which since Hath plucked him after.

Duke of 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. [Giving her a paper.] ’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.

She exits.

Duke of Albany:Where was his son when they did take his eyes?

Messenger:Come with my lady hither.

Duke of Albany:He is not here.

Messenger:No, my good lord. I met him back again.

Duke of Albany:Knows he the wickedness?

Messenger:Ay, my good lord. ’Twas he informed against him And quit the house on purpose, that their punishment Might have the freer course.

Duke of Albany:Gloucester, I live To thank thee for the love thou show’d’st the King, And to revenge thine eyes.—Come hither, friend. Tell me what more thou know’st.

They exit.

Scene 3

Enter Kent in disguise and a Gentleman.

Earl of 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.

Earl of Kent:Who hath he left behind him general?

Gentleman:The Marshal of France, Monsieur La Far.

Earl of 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 trilled down Her delicate cheek. It seemed she was a queen Over her passion, who, most rebel-like, Fought to be king o’er her.

Earl of Kent:O, then it moved 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 way. Those happy smilets That played on her ripe lip seemed not to know What guests were in her eyes, which parted thence As pearls from diamonds dropped. In brief, Sorrow would be a rarity most beloved If all could so become it.

Earl of Kent:Made she no verbal question?

Gentleman:Faith, once or twice she heaved the name of "father" Pantingly forth, as if it pressed her heart; Cried "Sisters, sisters, shame of ladies, sisters! Kent, father, sisters! What, i’ th’ storm, i’ th’ night? Let pity not be believed!" There she shook The holy water from her heavenly eyes, And clamor moistened. Then away she started, To deal with grief alone.

Earl of 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.

Earl of Kent:Was this before the King returned?

Gentleman:No, since.

Earl of Kent:Well, sir, the poor distressèd Lear’s i’ th’ 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?

Earl of Kent:A sovereign shame so elbows him—his own unkindness, That stripped her from his benediction, turned her To foreign casualties, gave her dear rights To his dog-hearted daughters—these things sting His mind so venomously that burning shame Detains him from Cordelia.

Gentleman:Alack, poor gentleman!

Earl of Kent:Of Albany’s and Cornwall’s powers you heard not?

Gentleman:’Tis so. They are afoot.

Earl of Kent:Well, sir, I’ll bring you to our master Lear And leave you to attend him. Some dear cause Will in concealment wrap me up awhile. When I am known aright, you shall not grieve Lending me this acquaintance. I pray you, go Along with me.

They exit.

Scene 4

Enter Regan and Oswald, the Steward.

Regan:But are my brother’s powers set forth?

Oswald:Ay, madam.

Regan:Himself in person there?

Oswald:Madam, with much ado. Your sister is the better soldier.

Regan:Lord Edmund spake not with your lord at home?

Oswald:No, madam.

Regan:What might import my sister’s letter to him?

Oswald:I know not, lady.

Regan:Faith, he is posted hence on serious matter. It was great ignorance, Gloucester’s eyes being out, To let him live. Where he arrives he moves All hearts against us. Edmund, I think, is gone, In pity of his misery, to dispatch His nighted life; moreover to descry The strength o’ th’ enemy.

Oswald:I must needs after him, madam, with my letter.

Regan:Our troops set forth tomorrow. Stay with us. The ways are dangerous.

Oswald:I may not, madam. My lady charged my duty in this business.

Regan:Why should she write to Edmund? Might not you Transport her purposes by word? Belike, Some things—I know not what. I’ll love thee much— Let me unseal the letter.

Oswald:Madam, I had rather—

Regan:I know your lady does not love her husband; I am sure of that; and at her late being here, She gave strange eliads and most speaking looks To noble Edmund. I know you are of her bosom.

Oswald:I, madam?

Regan:I speak in understanding. Y’ are; I know ’t. Therefore I do advise you take this note: My lord is dead; Edmund and I have talked, And more convenient is he for my hand Than for your lady’s. You may gather more. If you do find him, pray you, give him this, And when your mistress hears thus much from you, I pray, desire her call her wisdom to her. So, fare you well. If you do chance to hear of that blind traitor, Preferment falls on him that cuts him off.

Oswald:Would I could meet him, madam. I should show What party I do follow.

Regan:Fare thee well.

They exit.

Scene 5

Enter Gloucester and Edgar dressed as a peasant.

Earl of Gloucester:When shall I come to th’ top of that same hill?

Edgar:You do climb up it now. Look how we labor.

Earl of Gloucester:Methinks the ground is even.

Edgar:Horrible steep. Hark, do you hear the sea?

Earl of Gloucester:No, truly.

Edgar:Why then, your other senses grow imperfect By your eyes’ anguish.

Earl of Gloucester:So may it be indeed. Methinks thy voice is altered and thou speak’st In better phrase and matter than thou didst.

Edgar:You’re much deceived; in nothing am I changed But in my garments.

Earl of Gloucester:Methinks you’re better spoken.

Edgar:Come on, sir. Here’s the place. Stand still. How fearful And dizzy ’tis to cast one’s eyes so low! The crows and choughs that wing the midway air Show scarce so gross as beetles. Halfway down Hangs one that gathers samphire—dreadful trade; Methinks he seems no bigger than his head. The fishermen that walk upon the beach Appear like mice, and yond tall anchoring bark Diminished to her cock, her cock a buoy Almost too small for sight. The murmuring surge That on th’ unnumbered idle pebble chafes Cannot be heard so high. I’ll look no more Lest my brain turn and the deficient sight Topple down headlong.

Earl of Gloucester:Set me where you stand.

Edgar:Give me your hand. You are now within a foot Of th’ extreme verge. For all beneath the moon Would I not leap upright.

Earl of Gloucester:Let go my hand. Here, friend, ’s another purse; in it a jewel Well worth a poor man’s taking. Fairies and gods Prosper it with thee. [He gives Edgar a purse.] Go thou further off. Bid me farewell, and let me hear thee going.

Edgar:[walking away] Now fare you well, good sir.

Earl of Gloucester:With all my heart.

Edgar:[aside] Why I do trifle thus with his despair Is done to cure it.

Earl of Gloucester:O you mighty gods! [He kneels.] This world I do renounce, and in your sights Shake patiently my great affliction off. If I could bear it longer, and not fall To quarrel with your great opposeless wills, My snuff and loathèd part of nature should Burn itself out. If Edgar live, O, bless him!— Now, fellow, fare thee well.

He falls.

Edgar:Gone, sir. Farewell.— And yet I know not how conceit may rob The treasury of life, when life itself Yields to the theft. Had he been where he thought, By this had thought been past. Alive or dead?— Ho you, sir! Friend, hear you. Sir, speak.— Thus might he pass indeed. Yet he revives.— What are you, sir?

Earl of Gloucester:Away, and let me die.

Edgar:Hadst thou been aught but gossamer, feathers, air, So many fathom down precipitating, Thou ’dst shivered like an egg; but thou dost breathe, Hast heavy substance, bleed’st not, speak’st, art sound. Ten masts at each make not the altitude Which thou hast perpendicularly fell. Thy life’s a miracle. Speak yet again.

Earl of Gloucester:But have I fall’n or no?

Edgar:From the dread summit of this chalky bourn. Look up a-height. The shrill-gorged lark so far Cannot be seen or heard. Do but look up.

Earl of Gloucester:Alack, I have no eyes. Is wretchedness deprived that benefit To end itself by death? ’Twas yet some comfort When misery could beguile the tyrant’s rage And frustrate his proud will.

Edgar:Give me your arm. [He raises Gloucester.] Up. So, how is ’t? Feel you your legs? You stand.

Earl of Gloucester:Too well, too well.

Edgar:This is above all strangeness. Upon the crown o’ th’ cliff, what thing was that Which parted from you?

Earl of Gloucester:A poor unfortunate beggar.

Edgar:As I stood here below, methought his eyes Were two full moons; he had a thousand noses, Horns whelked and waved like the enragèd sea. It was some fiend. Therefore, thou happy father, Think that the clearest gods, who make them honors Of men’s impossibilities, have preserved thee.

Earl of Gloucester:I do remember now. Henceforth I’ll bear Affliction till it do cry out itself "Enough, enough!" and die. That thing you speak of, I took it for a man. Often ’twould say "The fiend, the fiend!" He led me to that place.

Edgar:Bear free and patient thoughts. [Enter Lear.] But who comes here? The safer sense will ne’er accommodate His master thus.

Lear:No, they cannot touch me for coining. I am the King himself.

Edgar:O, thou side-piercing sight!

Lear:Nature’s above art in that respect. There’s your press-money. That fellow handles his bow like a crowkeeper. Draw me a clothier’s yard. Look, look, a mouse! Peace, peace! This piece of toasted cheese will do ’t. There’s my gauntlet; I’ll prove it on a giant. Bring up the brown bills. O, well flown, bird! I’ th’ clout, i’ th’ clout! Hewgh! Give the word.

Edgar:Sweet marjoram.

Lear:Pass.

Earl of Gloucester:I know that voice.

Lear:Ha! Goneril with a white beard? They flattered me like a dog and told me I had the white hairs in my beard ere the black ones were there. To say "ay" and "no" to everything that I said "ay" and "no" to was no good divinity. When the rain came to wet me once and the wind to make me chatter, when the thunder would not peace at my bidding, there I found ’em, there I smelt ’em out. Go to. They are not men o’ their words; they told me I was everything. ’Tis a lie. I am not ague-proof.

Earl of Gloucester:The trick of that voice I do well remember. Is ’t not the King?

Lear:Ay, every inch a king. When I do stare, see how the subject quakes. I pardon that man’s life. What was thy cause? Adultery? Thou shalt not die. Die for adultery? No. The wren goes to ’t, and the small gilded fly does lecher in my sight. Let copulation thrive, for Gloucester’s bastard son was kinder to his father than my daughters got ’tween the lawful sheets. To ’t, luxury, pell-mell, for I lack soldiers. Behold yond simp’ring dame, whose face between her forks presages snow, that minces virtue and does shake the head to hear of pleasure’s name. The fitchew nor the soiled horse goes to ’t with a more riotous appetite. Down from the waist they are centaurs, though women all above. But to the girdle do the gods inherit; beneath is all the fiend’s. There’s hell, there’s darkness, there is the sulphurous pit; burning, scalding, stench, consumption! Fie, fie, fie, pah, pah! Give me an ounce of civet, good apothecary; sweeten my imagination. There’s money for thee.

Earl of Gloucester:O, let me kiss that hand!

Lear:Let me wipe it first; it smells of mortality.

Earl of Gloucester:O ruined piece of nature! This great world Shall so wear out to naught. Dost thou know me?

Lear:I remember thine eyes well enough. Dost thou squinny at me? No, do thy worst, blind Cupid, I’ll not love. Read thou this challenge. Mark but the penning of it.

Earl of Gloucester:Were all thy letters suns, I could not see.

Edgar:[aside] I would not take this from report. It is, And my heart breaks at it.

Lear:Read.

Earl of Gloucester:What, with the case of eyes?

Lear:O ho, are you there with me? No eyes in your head, nor no money in your purse? Your eyes are in a heavy case, your purse in a light, yet you see how this world goes.

Earl of Gloucester:I see it feelingly.

Lear:What, art mad? A man may see how this world goes with no eyes. Look with thine ears. See how yond justice rails upon yond simple thief. Hark in thine ear. Change places and, handy-dandy, which is the justice, which is the thief? Thou hast seen a farmer’s dog bark at a beggar?

Earl of Gloucester:Ay, sir.

Lear:And the creature run from the cur? There thou might’st behold the great image of authority: a dog’s obeyed in office. Thou rascal beadle, hold thy bloody hand! Why dost thou lash that whore? Strip thy own back. Thou hotly lusts to use her in that kind For which thou whipp’st her. The usurer hangs the cozener. Through tattered clothes small vices do appear. Robes and furred gowns hide all. Plate sin with gold, And the strong lance of justice hurtless breaks. Arm it in rags, a pygmy’s straw does pierce it. None does offend, none, I say, none; I’ll able ’em. Take that of me, my friend, who have the power To seal th’ accuser’s lips. Get thee glass eyes, And like a scurvy politician Seem to see the things thou dost not. Now, now, now, now. Pull off my boots. Harder, harder. So.

Edgar:[aside] O, matter and impertinency mixed, Reason in madness!

Lear:If thou wilt weep my fortunes, take my eyes. I know thee well enough; thy name is Gloucester. Thou must be patient. We came crying hither; Thou know’st the first time that we smell the air We wawl and cry. I will preach to thee. Mark.

Earl of Gloucester:Alack, alack the day!

Lear:When we are born, we cry that we are come To this great stage of fools.—This’ a good block. It were a delicate stratagem to shoe A troop of horse with felt. I’ll put ’t in proof, And when I have stol’n upon these son-in-laws, Then kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill!

Enter a Gentleman and Attendants.

Gentleman:[noticing Lear] O, here he is. [To an Attendant.] Lay hand upon him.—Sir, Your most dear daughter—

Lear:No rescue? What, a prisoner? I am even The natural fool of Fortune. Use me well. You shall have ransom. Let me have surgeons; I am cut to th’ brains.

Gentleman:You shall have anything.

Lear:No seconds? All myself? Why, this would make a man a man of salt, To use his eyes for garden waterpots, Ay, and laying autumn’s dust. I will die bravely like a smug bridegroom. What? I will be jovial. Come, come, I am a king, Masters, know you that?

Gentleman:You are a royal one, and we obey you.

Lear:Then there’s life in ’t. Come, an you get it, you shall get it by running. Sa, sa, sa, sa.

The King exits running pursued by Attendants.

Gentleman:A sight most pitiful in the meanest wretch, Past speaking of in a king. Thou hast a daughter Who redeems nature from the general curse Which twain have brought her to.

Edgar:Hail, gentle sir.

Gentleman:Sir, speed you. What’s your will?

Edgar:Do you hear aught, sir, of a battle toward?

Gentleman:Most sure and vulgar. Everyone hears that, Which can distinguish sound.

Edgar:But, by your favor, How near’s the other army?

Gentleman:Near and on speedy foot. The main descry Stands on the hourly thought.

Edgar:I thank you, sir. That’s all.

Gentleman:Though that the Queen on special cause is here, Her army is moved on.

Edgar:I thank you, sir.

Gentleman exits.

Earl of Gloucester:You ever-gentle gods, take my breath from me; Let not my worser spirit tempt me again To die before you please.

Edgar:Well pray you, father.

Earl of Gloucester:Now, good sir, what are you?

Edgar:A most poor man, made tame to Fortune’s blows, Who, by the art of known and feeling sorrows, Am pregnant to good pity. Give me your hand; I’ll lead you to some biding.

He takes Gloucester’s hand.

Earl of Gloucester:Hearty thanks. The bounty and the benison of heaven To boot, and boot.

Enter Oswald, the Steward.

Oswald:[drawing his sword] A proclaimed prize! Most happy! That eyeless head of thine was first framed flesh To raise my fortunes. Thou old unhappy traitor, Briefly thyself remember; the sword is out That must destroy thee.

Earl of Gloucester:Now let thy friendly hand Put strength enough to ’t.

Edgar steps between Gloucester and Oswald.

Oswald:Wherefore, bold peasant, Dar’st thou support a published traitor? Hence, Lest that th’ infection of his fortune take Like hold on thee. Let go his arm.

Edgar:Chill not let go, zir, without vurther ’casion.

Oswald:Let go, slave, or thou diest!

Edgar:Good gentleman, go your gait, and let poor volk pass. An ’chud ha’ bin zwaggered out of my life, ’twould not ha’ bin zo long as ’tis by a vortnight. Nay, come not near th’ old man. Keep out, che vor’ ye, or Ise try whether your costard or my ballow be the harder. Chill be plain with you.

Oswald:Out, dunghill.

Edgar:Chill pick your teeth, zir. Come, no matter vor your foins.

They fight.

Oswald:[falling] Slave, thou hast slain me. Villain, take my purse. If ever thou wilt thrive, bury my body, And give the letters which thou find’st about me To Edmund, Earl of Gloucester. Seek him out Upon the English party. O, untimely death! Death!

He dies.

Edgar:I know thee well, a serviceable villain, As duteous to the vices of thy mistress As badness would desire.

Earl of Gloucester:What, is he dead?

Edgar:Sit you down, father; rest you. Let’s see these pockets. The letters that he speaks of May be my friends. He’s dead; I am only sorry He had no other deathsman. Let us see. [He opens a letter.] Leave, gentle wax, and, manners, blame us not. To know our enemies’ minds, we rip their hearts. Their papers is more lawful. [Reads the letter.] Let our reciprocal vows be remembered. You have many opportunities to cut him off. If your will want not, time and place will be fruitfully offered. There is nothing done if he return the conqueror. Then am I the prisoner, and his bed my jail, from the loathed warmth whereof deliver me and supply the place for your labor. Your (wife, so I would say) affectionate servant, and, for you, her own for venture,Goneril. O indistinguished space of woman’s will! A plot upon her virtuous husband’s life, And the exchange my brother.—Here, in the sands Thee I’ll rake up, the post unsanctified Of murderous lechers; and in the mature time With this ungracious paper strike the sight Of the death-practiced duke. For him ’tis well That of thy death and business I can tell.

Earl of Gloucester:The King is mad. How stiff is my vile sense That I stand up and have ingenious feeling Of my huge sorrows! Better I were distract. So should my thoughts be severed from my griefs, And woes, by wrong imaginations, lose The knowledge of themselves.

Drum afar off.

Edgar:Give me your hand. Far off methinks I hear the beaten drum. Come, father, I’ll bestow you with a friend.

They exit.

Scene 6

Enter Cordelia, Kent in disguise, Doctor, and Gentleman.

Cordelia:O, thou good Kent, how shall I live and work To match thy goodness? My life will be too short, And every measure fail me.

Earl of Kent:To be acknowledged, madam, is o’erpaid. All my reports go with the modest truth, Nor more, nor clipped, but so.

Cordelia:Be better suited. These weeds are memories of those worser hours. I prithee put them off.

Earl of Kent:Pardon, dear madam. Yet to be known shortens my made intent. My boon I make it that you know me not Till time and I think meet.

Cordelia:Then be ’t so, my good lord.—How does the King?

Doctor:Madam, sleeps still.

Cordelia:O, you kind gods, Cure this great breach in his abusèd nature! Th’ untuned and jarring senses, O, wind up, Of this child-changèd father!

Doctor:So please your Majesty That we may wake the King? He hath slept long.

Cordelia:Be governed by your knowledge, and proceed I’ th’ sway of your own will. Is he arrayed?

Enter Lear in a chair carried by Servants.

Gentleman:Ay, madam. In the heaviness of sleep, We put fresh garments on him.

Doctor:Be by, good madam, when we do awake him. I doubt not of his temperance.

Cordelia:Very well.

Music.

Doctor:Please you, draw near.—Louder the music there.

Cordelia:[kissing Lear] O, my dear father, restoration hang Thy medicine on my lips, and let this kiss Repair those violent harms that my two sisters Have in thy reverence made.

Earl of Kent:Kind and dear princess.

Cordelia:Had you not been their father, these white flakes Did challenge pity of them. Was this a face To be opposed against the jarring winds? To stand against the deep dread-bolted thunder, In the most terrible and nimble stroke Of quick cross-lightning? To watch, poor perdu, With this thin helm? Mine enemy’s dog, Though he had bit me, should have stood that night Against my fire. And wast thou fain, poor father, To hovel thee with swine and rogues forlorn In short and musty straw? Alack, alack, ’Tis wonder that thy life and wits at once Had not concluded all.—He wakes. Speak to him.

Doctor:Madam, do you; ’tis fittest.

Cordelia:How does my royal lord? How fares your Majesty?

Lear:You do me wrong to take me out o’ th’ grave. Thou art a soul in bliss, but I am bound Upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears Do scald like molten lead.

Cordelia:Sir, do you know me?

Lear:You are a spirit, I know. Where did you die?

Cordelia:Still, still, far wide.

Doctor:He’s scarce awake. Let him alone awhile.

Lear:Where have I been? Where am I? Fair daylight? I am mightily abused; I should e’en die with pity To see another thus. I know not what to say. I will not swear these are my hands. Let’s see. I feel this pinprick. Would I were assured Of my condition!

Cordelia:O, look upon me, sir, And hold your hand in benediction o’er me. No, sir, you must not kneel.

Lear:Pray do not mock: I am a very foolish fond old man, Fourscore and upward, not an hour more nor less, And to deal plainly, I fear I am not in my perfect mind. Methinks I should know you and know this man, Yet I am doubtful, for I am mainly ignorant What place this is, and all the skill I have Remembers not these garments; nor I know not Where I did lodge last night. Do not laugh at me, For, as I am a man, I think this lady To be my child Cordelia.

Cordelia:[weeping] And so I am; I am.

Lear:Be your tears wet? Yes, faith. I pray, weep not. If you have poison for me, I will drink it. I know you do not love me, for your sisters Have, as I do remember, done me wrong. You have some cause; they have not.

Cordelia:No cause, no cause.

Lear:Am I in France?

Earl of Kent:In your own kingdom, sir.

Lear:Do not abuse me.

Doctor:Be comforted, good madam. The great rage, You see, is killed in him, and yet it is danger To make him even o’er the time he has lost. Desire him to go in. Trouble him no more Till further settling.

Cordelia:Will ’t please your Highness walk?

Lear:You must bear with me. Pray you now, forget, and forgive. I am old and foolish.

They exit. Kent and Gentleman remain.

Gentleman:Holds it true, sir, that the Duke of Cornwall was so slain?

Earl of Kent:Most certain, sir.

Gentleman:Who is conductor of his people?

Earl of Kent:As ’tis said, the bastard son of Gloucester.

Gentleman:They say Edgar, his banished son, is with the Earl of Kent in Germany.

Earl of Kent:Report is changeable. ’Tis time to look about. The powers of the kingdom approach apace.

Gentleman:The arbitrament is like to be bloody. Fare you well, sir.

He exits.

Earl of Kent:My point and period will be throughly wrought, Or well, or ill, as this day’s battle’s fought.

He exits.

Act 5

Scene 1

Enter, with Drum and Colors, Edmund, Regan, Gentlemen, and Soldiers.

Edmund:[to a Gentleman] Know of the Duke if his last purpose hold, Or whether since he is advised by aught To change the course. He’s full of alteration And self-reproving. Bring his constant pleasure.

A Gentleman exits.

Regan:Our sister’s man is certainly miscarried.

Edmund:’Tis to be doubted, madam.

Regan:Now, sweet lord, You know the goodness I intend upon you; Tell me but truly, but then speak the truth, Do you not love my sister?

Edmund:In honored love.

Regan:But have you never found my brother’s way To the forfended place?

Edmund:That thought abuses you.

Regan:I am doubtful that you have been conjunct And bosomed with her as far as we call hers.

Edmund:No, by mine honor, madam.

Regan:I never shall endure her. Dear my lord, Be not familiar with her.

Edmund:Fear me not. She and the Duke, her husband.

Enter, with Drum and Colors, Albany, Goneril, Soldiers.

Goneril:[aside] I had rather lose the battle than that sister Should loosen him and me.

Duke of Albany:Our very loving sister, well bemet.— Sir, this I heard: the King is come to his daughter, With others whom the rigor of our state Forced to cry out. Where I could not be honest, I never yet was valiant. For this business, It touches us as France invades our land, Not bolds the King, with others whom, I fear, Most just and heavy causes make oppose.

Edmund:Sir, you speak nobly.

Regan:Why is this reasoned?

Goneril:Combine together ’gainst the enemy, For these domestic and particular broils Are not the question here.

Duke of Albany:Let’s then determine With th’ ancient of war on our proceeding.

Edmund:I shall attend you presently at your tent.

Regan:Sister, you’ll go with us?

Goneril:No.

Regan:’Tis most convenient. Pray, go with us.

Goneril:[aside] Oho, I know the riddle.—I will go.

They begin to exit.

Enter Edgar dressed as a peasant.

Edgar:[to Albany] If e’er your Grace had speech with man so poor, Hear me one word.

Duke of Albany:[to those exiting] I’ll overtake you.—Speak.

Both the armies exit.

Edgar:[giving him a paper] Before you fight the battle, ope this letter. If you have victory, let the trumpet sound For him that brought it. Wretched though I seem, I can produce a champion that will prove What is avouchèd there. If you miscarry, Your business of the world hath so an end, And machination ceases. Fortune love you.

Duke of Albany:Stay till I have read the letter.

Edgar:I was forbid it. When time shall serve, let but the herald cry And I’ll appear again.

He exits.

Duke of Albany:Why, fare thee well. I will o’erlook thy paper.

Enter Edmund.

Edmund:The enemy’s in view. Draw up your powers. [Giving him a paper.] Here is the guess of their true strength and forces By diligent discovery. But your haste Is now urged on you.

Duke of Albany:We will greet the time.

He exits.

Edmund:To both these sisters have I sworn my love, Each jealous of the other as the stung Are of the adder. Which of them shall I take? Both? One? Or neither? Neither can be enjoyed If both remain alive. To take the widow Exasperates, makes mad her sister Goneril, And hardly shall I carry out my side, Her husband being alive. Now, then, we’ll use His countenance for the battle, which, being done, Let her who would be rid of him devise His speedy taking off. As for the mercy Which he intends to Lear and to Cordelia, The battle done and they within our power, Shall never see his pardon, for my state Stands on me to defend, not to debate.

He exits.

Scene 2

Alarum within. Enter, with Drum and Colors, Lear, Cordelia, and Soldiers, over the stage, and exit. Enter Edgar and Gloucester.

Edgar:Here, father, take the shadow of this tree For your good host. Pray that the right may thrive. If ever I return to you again, I’ll bring you comfort.

Earl of Gloucester:Grace go with you, sir.

Edgar exits.

Alarum and Retreat within.

Enter Edgar.

Edgar:Away, old man. Give me thy hand. Away. King Lear hath lost, he and his daughter ta’en. Give me thy hand. Come on.

Earl of Gloucester:No further, sir. A man may rot even here.

Edgar:What, in ill thoughts again? Men must endure Their going hence even as their coming hither. Ripeness is all. Come on.

Earl of Gloucester:And that’s true too.

They exit.

Scene 3

Enter in conquest, with Drum and Colors, Edmund; Lear and Cordelia as prisoners; Soldiers, Captain.

Edmund:Some officers take them away. Good guard Until their greater pleasures first be known That are to censure them.

Cordelia:[to Lear] We are not the first Who with best meaning have incurred the worst. For thee, oppressèd king, I am cast down. Myself could else outfrown false Fortune’s frown. Shall we not see these daughters and these sisters?

Lear:No, no, no, no. Come, let’s away to prison. We two alone will sing like birds i’ th’ cage. When thou dost ask me blessing, I’ll kneel down And ask of thee forgiveness. So we’ll live, And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh At gilded butterflies, and hear poor rogues Talk of court news, and we’ll talk with them too— Who loses and who wins; who’s in, who’s out— And take upon ’s the mystery of things, As if we were God’s spies. And we’ll wear out, In a walled prison, packs and sects of great ones That ebb and flow by th’ moon.

Edmund:Take them away.

Lear:Upon such sacrifices, my Cordelia, The gods themselves throw incense. Have I caught thee? He that parts us shall bring a brand from heaven And fire us hence like foxes. Wipe thine eyes. The good years shall devour them, flesh and fell, Ere they shall make us weep. We’ll see ’em starved first. Come.

Lear and Cordelia exit, with Soldiers.

Edmund:Come hither, captain. Hark. [Handing him a paper.] Take thou this note. Go follow them to prison. One step I have advanced thee. If thou dost As this instructs thee, thou dost make thy way To noble fortunes. Know thou this: that men Are as the time is; to be tender-minded Does not become a sword. Thy great employment Will not bear question. Either say thou ’lt do ’t, Or thrive by other means.

Captain:I’ll do ’t, my lord.

Edmund:About it, and write "happy" when th’ hast done. Mark, I say, instantly, and carry it so As I have set it down.

Captain:I cannot draw a cart, nor eat dried oats. If it be man’s work, I’ll do ’t.

Captain exits.

Flourish. Enter Albany, Goneril, Regan, Soldiers and a Captain.

Duke of Albany:[to Edmund] Sir, you have showed today your valiant strain, And Fortune led you well. You have the captives Who were the opposites of this day’s strife. I do require them of you, so to use them As we shall find their merits and our safety May equally determine.

Edmund:Sir, I thought it fit To send the old and miserable king To some retention and appointed guard, Whose age had charms in it, whose title more, To pluck the common bosom on his side And turn our impressed lances in our eyes, Which do command them. With him I sent the Queen, My reason all the same, and they are ready Tomorrow, or at further space, t’ appear Where you shall hold your session. At this time We sweat and bleed. The friend hath lost his friend, And the best quarrels in the heat are cursed By those that feel their sharpness. The question of Cordelia and her father Requires a fitter place.

Duke of Albany:Sir, by your patience, I hold you but a subject of this war, Not as a brother.

Regan:That’s as we list to grace him. Methinks our pleasure might have been demanded Ere you had spoke so far. He led our powers, Bore the commission of my place and person, The which immediacy may well stand up And call itself your brother.

Goneril:Not so hot. In his own grace he doth exalt himself More than in your addition.

Regan:In my rights, By me invested, he compeers the best.

Goneril:That were the most if he should husband you.

Regan:Jesters do oft prove prophets.

Goneril:Holla, holla! That eye that told you so looked but asquint.

Regan:Lady, I am not well, else I should answer From a full-flowing stomach. [To Edmund.] General, Take thou my soldiers, prisoners, patrimony. Dispose of them, of me; the walls is thine. Witness the world that I create thee here My lord and master.

Goneril:Mean you to enjoy him?

Duke of Albany:The let-alone lies not in your goodwill.

Edmund:Nor in thine, lord.

Duke of Albany:Half-blooded fellow, yes.

Regan:[to Edmund] Let the drum strike, and prove my title thine.

Duke of Albany:Stay yet, hear reason.—Edmund, I arrest thee On capital treason; and, in thine attaint, This gilded serpent.—For your claim, fair sister, I bar it in the interest of my wife. ’Tis she is subcontracted to this lord, And I, her husband, contradict your banns. If you will marry, make your loves to me. My lady is bespoke.

Goneril:An interlude!

Duke of Albany:Thou art armed, Gloucester. Let the trumpet sound. If none appear to prove upon thy person Thy heinous, manifest, and many treasons, There is my pledge. [He throws down a glove.] I’ll make it on thy heart, Ere I taste bread, thou art in nothing less Than I have here proclaimed thee.

Regan:Sick, O, sick!

Goneril:[aside] If not, I’ll ne’er trust medicine.

Edmund:There’s my exchange. [He throws down a glove.] What in the world he is That names me traitor, villain-like he lies. Call by the trumpet. He that dares approach, On him, on you, who not, I will maintain My truth and honor firmly.

Duke of Albany:A herald, ho!

Edmund:A herald, ho, a herald!

Duke of Albany:Trust to thy single virtue, for thy soldiers, All levied in my name, have in my name Took their discharge.

Regan:My sickness grows upon me.

Duke of Albany:She is not well. Convey her to my tent. [Regan is helped to exit.] [Enter a Herald.] Come hither, herald. Let the trumpet sound, And read out this.

He hands the Herald a paper.

Captain:Sound, trumpet!

A trumpet sounds.

Herald:[reads.] If any man of quality or degree, within the lists of the army, will maintain upon Edmund, supposed Earl of Gloucester, that he is a manifold traitor, let him appear by the third sound of the trumpet. He is bold in his defense.

First trumpet sounds.

Herald:Again!

Second trumpet sounds.

Herald:Again!

Third trumpet sounds.

Trumpet answers within.

Enter Edgar armed.

Duke of Albany:[to Herald] Ask him his purposes, why he appears Upon this call o’ th’ trumpet.

Herald:What are you? Your name, your quality, and why you answer This present summons?

Edgar:Know my name is lost, By treason’s tooth bare-gnawn and canker-bit. Yet am I noble as the adversary I come to cope.

Duke of Albany:Which is that adversary?

Edgar:What’s he that speaks for Edmund, Earl of Gloucester?

Edmund:Himself. What sayest thou to him?

Edgar:Draw thy sword, That if my speech offend a noble heart, Thy arm may do thee justice. Here is mine. [He draws his sword.] Behold, it is my privilege, the privilege of mine honors, My oath, and my profession. I protest, Maugre thy strength, place, youth, and eminence, Despite thy victor-sword and fire-new fortune, Thy valor, and thy heart, thou art a traitor, False to thy gods, thy brother, and thy father, Conspirant ’gainst this high illustrious prince, And from th’ extremest upward of thy head To the descent and dust below thy foot, A most toad-spotted traitor. Say thou "no," This sword, this arm, and my best spirits are bent To prove upon thy heart, whereto I speak, Thou liest.

Edmund:In wisdom I should ask thy name, But since thy outside looks so fair and warlike, And that thy tongue some say of breeding breathes, What safe and nicely I might well delay By rule of knighthood, I disdain and spurn. Back do I toss these treasons to thy head, With the hell-hated lie o’erwhelm thy heart, Which, for they yet glance by and scarcely bruise, This sword of mine shall give them instant way, Where they shall rest forever. Trumpets, speak!

He draws his sword. Alarums. Fights.

Edmund falls, wounded.

Duke of Albany:[to Edgar] Save him, save him!

Goneril:This is practice, Gloucester. By th’ law of war, thou wast not bound to answer An unknown opposite. Thou art not vanquished, But cozened and beguiled.

Duke of Albany:Shut your mouth, dame, Or with this paper shall I stopple it.—Hold, sir.— Thou worse than any name, read thine own evil. No tearing, lady. I perceive you know it.

Goneril:Say if I do; the laws are mine, not thine. Who can arraign me for ’t?

Duke of Albany:Most monstrous! O! Know’st thou this paper?

Goneril:Ask me not what I know.

She exits.

Duke of Albany:Go after her, she’s desperate. Govern her.

A Soldier exits.

Edmund:[to Edgar] What you have charged me with, that have I done, And more, much more. The time will bring it out. ’Tis past, and so am I. But what art thou That hast this fortune on me? If thou ’rt noble, I do forgive thee.

Edgar:Let’s exchange charity. I am no less in blood than thou art, Edmund; If more, the more th’ hast wronged me. My name is Edgar and thy father’s son. The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices Make instruments to plague us. The dark and vicious place where thee he got Cost him his eyes.

Edmund:Th’ hast spoken right. ’Tis true. The wheel is come full circle; I am here.

Duke of Albany:[to Edgar] Methought thy very gait did prophesy A royal nobleness. I must embrace thee. Let sorrow split my heart if ever I Did hate thee or thy father!

Edgar:Worthy prince, I know ’t.

Duke of Albany:Where have you hid yourself? How have you known the miseries of your father?

Edgar:By nursing them, my lord. List a brief tale, And when ’tis told, O, that my heart would burst! The bloody proclamation to escape That followed me so near—O, our lives’ sweetness, That we the pain of death would hourly die Rather than die at once!—taught me to shift Into a madman’s rags, t’ assume a semblance That very dogs disdained, and in this habit Met I my father with his bleeding rings, Their precious stones new lost; became his guide, Led him, begged for him, saved him from despair. Never—O fault!—revealed myself unto him Until some half hour past, when I was armed. Not sure, though hoping of this good success, I asked his blessing, and from first to last Told him our pilgrimage. But his flawed heart (Alack, too weak the conflict to support) ’Twixt two extremes of passion, joy and grief, Burst smilingly.

Edmund:This speech of yours hath moved me, And shall perchance do good. But speak you on. You look as you had something more to say.

Duke of Albany:If there be more, more woeful, hold it in, For I am almost ready to dissolve, Hearing of this.

Edgar:This would have seemed a period To such as love not sorrow; but another, To amplify too much, would make much more And top extremity. Whilst I Was big in clamor, came there in a man Who, having seen me in my worst estate, Shunned my abhorred society; but then, finding Who ’twas that so endured, with his strong arms He fastened on my neck and bellowed out As he’d burst heaven, threw him on my father, Told the most piteous tale of Lear and him That ever ear received, which, in recounting, His grief grew puissant, and the strings of life Began to crack. Twice then the trumpets sounded, And there I left him tranced.

Duke of Albany:But who was this?

Edgar:Kent, sir, the banished Kent, who in disguise Followed his enemy king and did him service Improper for a slave.

Enter a Gentleman with a bloody knife.

Gentleman:Help, help, O, help!

Edgar:What kind of help?

Duke of Albany:[to Gentleman] Speak, man!

Edgar:What means this bloody knife?

Gentleman:’Tis hot, it smokes! It came even from the heart Of—O, she’s dead!

Duke of Albany:Who dead? Speak, man.

Gentleman:Your lady, sir, your lady. And her sister By her is poisoned. She confesses it.

Edmund:I was contracted to them both. All three Now marry in an instant.

Edgar:Here comes Kent.

Enter Kent.

Duke of Albany:[to the Gentleman] Produce the bodies, be they alive or dead. [Gentleman exits.] This judgment of the heavens, that makes us tremble, Touches us not with pity. O, is this he? [To Kent.] The time will not allow the compliment Which very manners urges.

Earl of Kent:I am come To bid my king and master aye goodnight. Is he not here?

Duke of Albany:Great thing of us forgot! Speak, Edmund, where’s the King? And where’s Cordelia? [Goneril and Regan’s bodies brought out.] Seest thou this object, Kent?

Earl of Kent:Alack, why thus?

Edmund:Yet Edmund was beloved. The one the other poisoned for my sake, And after slew herself.

Duke of Albany:Even so.—Cover their faces.

Edmund:I pant for life. Some good I mean to do Despite of mine own nature. Quickly send— Be brief in it—to th’ castle, for my writ Is on the life of Lear, and on Cordelia. Nay, send in time.

Duke of Albany:Run, run, O, run!

Edgar:To who, my lord? [To Edmund.] Who has the office? Send Thy token of reprieve.

Edmund:Well thought on. Take my sword. Give it the Captain.

Edgar:[to a Soldier] Haste thee for thy life.

The Soldier exits with Edmund’s sword.

Edmund:[to Albany] He hath commission from thy wife and me To hang Cordelia in the prison, and To lay the blame upon her own despair, That she fordid herself.

Duke of Albany:The gods defend her!—Bear him hence awhile.

Edmund is carried off.

Enter Lear with Cordelia in his arms, followed by a Gentleman.

Lear:Howl, howl, howl! O, you are men of stones! Had I your tongues and eyes, I’d use them so That heaven’s vault should crack. She’s gone forever. I know when one is dead and when one lives. She’s dead as earth.—Lend me a looking glass. If that her breath will mist or stain the stone, Why, then she lives.

Earl of Kent:Is this the promised end?

Edgar:Or image of that horror?

Duke of Albany:Fall and cease.

Lear:This feather stirs. She lives. If it be so, It is a chance which does redeem all sorrows That ever I have felt.

Earl of Kent:O, my good master—

Lear:Prithee, away.

Edgar:’Tis noble Kent, your friend.

Lear:A plague upon you, murderers, traitors all! I might have saved her. Now she’s gone forever.— Cordelia, Cordelia, stay a little. Ha! What is ’t thou sayst?—Her voice was ever soft, Gentle, and low, an excellent thing in woman. I killed the slave that was a-hanging thee.

Gentleman:’Tis true, my lords, he did.

Lear:Did I not, fellow? I have seen the day, with my good biting falchion I would have made him skip. I am old now, And these same crosses spoil me. [To Kent.] Who are you? Mine eyes are not o’ th’ best. I’ll tell you straight.

Earl of Kent:If Fortune brag of two she loved and hated, One of them we behold.

Lear:This is a dull sight. Are you not Kent?

Earl of Kent:The same, Your servant Kent. Where is your servant Caius?

Lear:He’s a good fellow, I can tell you that. He’ll strike and quickly too. He’s dead and rotten.

Earl of Kent:No, my good lord, I am the very man—

Lear:I’ll see that straight.

Earl of Kent:That from your first of difference and decay Have followed your sad steps.

Lear:You are welcome hither.

Earl of Kent:Nor no man else. All’s cheerless, dark, and deadly. Your eldest daughters have fordone themselves, And desperately are dead.

Lear:Ay, so I think.

Duke of Albany:He knows not what he says, and vain is it That we present us to him.

Edgar:Very bootless.

Enter a Messenger.

Messenger:Edmund is dead, my lord.

Duke of Albany:That’s but a trifle here.— You lords and noble friends, know our intent: What comfort to this great decay may come Shall be applied. For us, we will resign, During the life of this old Majesty, To him our absolute power; you to your rights, With boot and such addition as your Honors Have more than merited. All friends shall taste The wages of their virtue, and all foes The cup of their deservings. O, see, see!

Lear:And my poor fool is hanged. No, no, no life? Why should a dog, a horse, a rat have life, And thou no breath at all? Thou ’lt come no more, Never, never, never, never, never.— Pray you undo this button. Thank you, sir. Do you see this? Look on her, look, her lips, Look there, look there!

He dies.

Edgar:He faints. [To Lear.] My lord, my lord!

Earl of Kent:Break, heart, I prithee, break!

Edgar:Look up, my lord.

Earl of Kent:Vex not his ghost. O, let him pass! He hates him That would upon the rack of this tough world Stretch him out longer.

Edgar:He is gone indeed.

Earl of Kent:The wonder is he hath endured so long. He but usurped his life.

Duke of Albany:Bear them from hence. Our present business Is general woe. [To Edgar and Kent.] Friends of my soul, you twain Rule in this realm, and the gored state sustain.

Earl of Kent:I have a journey, sir, shortly to go; My master calls me. I must not say no.

Edgar:The weight of this sad time we must obey, Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say. The oldest hath borne most; we that are young Shall never see so much nor live so long.

They exit with a dead march.