Part 102

LEAR. I’ll tell thee. [_To Goneril._] Life and death! I am asham’d That thou hast power to shake my manhood thus; That these hot tears, which break from me perforce, Should make thee worth them. Blasts and fogs upon thee! Th’untented woundings of a father’s curse Pierce every sense about thee! Old fond eyes, Beweep this cause again, I’ll pluck ye out, And cast you with the waters that you lose To temper clay. Ha! Let it be so. I have another daughter, Who, I am sure, is kind and comfortable: When she shall hear this of thee, with her nails She’ll flay thy wolvish visage. Thou shalt find That I’ll resume the shape which thou dost think I have cast off for ever.

[_Exeunt Lear, Kent and Attendants._]

GONERIL. Do you mark that?

ALBANY. I cannot be so partial, Goneril, To the great love I bear you,—

GONERIL. Pray you, content. What, Oswald, ho! [_To the Fool._] You, sir, more knave than fool, after your master.

FOOL. Nuncle Lear, nuncle Lear, tarry and take the fool with thee. A fox when one has caught her, And such a daughter, Should sure to the slaughter, If my cap would buy a halter; So the fool follows after.

[_Exit._]

GONERIL. This man hath had good counsel.—A hundred knights! ’Tis politic and safe to let him keep At point a hundred knights: yes, that on every dream, Each buzz, each fancy, each complaint, dislike, He may enguard his dotage with their powers, And hold our lives in mercy. Oswald, I say!

ALBANY. Well, you may fear too far.

GONERIL. Safer than trust too far: Let me still take away the harms I fear, Not fear still to be taken: I know his heart. What he hath utter’d I have writ my sister: If she sustain him and his hundred knights, When I have show’d th’unfitness,—

Re-enter Oswald.

How now, Oswald! What, have you writ that letter to my sister?

OSWALD. Ay, madam.

GONERIL. Take you some company, and away to horse: Inform her full of my particular fear; And thereto add such reasons of your own As may compact it more. Get you gone; And hasten your return.

[_Exit Oswald._]

No, no, my lord! This milky gentleness and course of yours, Though I condemn not, yet, under pardon, You are much more attask’d for want of wisdom Than prais’d for harmful mildness.

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

GONERIL. Nay then,—

ALBANY. Well, well; the event.

[_Exeunt._]

SCENE V. Court before the Duke of Albany’s Palace

Enter Lear, Kent and Fool.

LEAR. Go you before to Gloucester with these letters: acquaint my daughter no further with anything you know than comes from her demand out of the letter. If your diligence be not speedy, I shall be there afore you.

KENT. I will not sleep, my lord, till I have delivered your letter.

[_Exit._]

FOOL. If a man’s brains were in’s heels, were’t not in danger of kibes?

LEAR. Ay, boy.

FOOL. Then I prithee be merry; thy wit shall not go slipshod.

LEAR. Ha, ha, ha!

FOOL. Shalt see thy other daughter will use thee kindly, for though she’s as like this as a crab’s like an apple, yet I can tell what I can tell.

LEAR. What canst tell, boy?

FOOL. She’ll taste as like this as a crab does to a crab. Thou canst tell why one’s nose stands i’the middle on’s face?

LEAR. No.

FOOL. Why, to keep one’s eyes of either side’s nose, that what a man cannot smell out, he may spy into.

LEAR. I did her wrong.

FOOL. Canst tell how an oyster makes his shell?

LEAR. No.

FOOL. Nor I neither; but I can tell why a snail has a house.

LEAR. Why?

FOOL. Why, to put’s head in; not to give it away to his daughters, and leave his horns without a case.

LEAR. I will forget my nature. So kind a father! Be my horses ready?

FOOL. Thy asses are gone about ’em. The reason why the seven stars are no more than seven is a pretty reason.

LEAR. Because they are not eight?

FOOL. Yes indeed: thou wouldst make a good fool.

LEAR. To tak’t again perforce!—Monster ingratitude!

FOOL. If thou wert my fool, nuncle, I’d have thee beaten for being old before thy time.

LEAR. How’s that?

FOOL. Thou shouldst not have been old till thou hadst been wise.

LEAR. O, let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven! Keep me in temper; I would not be mad!

Enter Gentleman.

How now? are the horses ready?

GENTLEMAN. Ready, my lord.

LEAR. Come, boy.

FOOL. She that’s a maid now, and laughs at my departure, Shall not be a maid long, unless things be cut shorter.

[_Exeunt._]

ACT II

SCENE I. A court within the Castle of the Earl of Gloucester

Enter Edmund and Curan, meeting.

EDMUND. Save thee, Curan.

CURAN. And you, sir. I have been with your father, and given him notice that the Duke of Cornwall and Regan his Duchess will be here with him this night.

EDMUND. How comes that?

CURAN. Nay, I know not. You have heard of the news abroad; I mean the whispered ones, for they are yet but ear-kissing arguments?

EDMUND. Not I: pray you, what are they?

CURAN. Have you heard of no likely wars toward, ’twixt the two dukes of Cornwall and Albany?

EDMUND. Not a word.

CURAN. You may do, then, in time. Fare you well, sir.

[_Exit._]

EDMUND. The Duke be here tonight? The better! best! This weaves itself perforce into my business. My father hath set guard to take my brother; And I have one thing, of a queasy question, Which I must act. Briefness and fortune work! Brother, a word, descend, brother, I say!

Enter Edgar.

My father watches: O sir, fly this place; Intelligence is given where you are hid; You have now the good advantage of the night. Have you not spoken ’gainst the Duke of Cornwall? He’s coming hither; now, i’ the night, i’ the haste, And Regan with him: have you nothing said Upon his party ’gainst the Duke of Albany? Advise yourself.

EDGAR. I am sure on’t, not a word.

EDMUND. I hear my father coming:—pardon me; In cunning I must draw my sword upon you: Draw: seem to defend yourself: now quit you well. Yield: come before my father. Light, ho, here! Fly, brother. Torches, torches!—So farewell.

[_Exit Edgar._]

Some blood drawn on me would beget opinion Of my more fierce endeavour: [_Wounds his arm._] I have seen drunkards Do more than this in sport. Father, father! Stop, stop! No help?

Enter Gloucester and Servants with torches.

GLOUCESTER. Now, Edmund, where’s the villain?

EDMUND. Here stood he in the dark, his sharp sword out, Mumbling of wicked charms, conjuring the moon To stand auspicious mistress.

GLOUCESTER. But where is he?

EDMUND. Look, sir, I bleed.

GLOUCESTER. Where is the villain, Edmund?

EDMUND. Fled this way, sir. When by no means he could,—

GLOUCESTER. Pursue him, ho! Go after.

[_Exeunt Servants._]

—By no means what?

EDMUND. Persuade me to the murder of your lordship; But that I told him the revenging gods ’Gainst parricides did all their thunders bend; Spoke with how manifold and strong a bond The child was bound to the father; sir, in fine, Seeing how loathly opposite I stood To his unnatural purpose, in fell motion With his prepared sword, he charges home My unprovided body, latch’d mine arm; But when he saw my best alarum’d spirits, Bold in the quarrel’s right, rous’d to th’encounter, Or whether gasted by the noise I made, Full suddenly he fled.

GLOUCESTER. Let him fly far; Not in this land shall he remain uncaught; And found—dispatch’d. The noble Duke my master, My worthy arch and patron, comes tonight: By his authority I will proclaim it, That he which finds him shall deserve our thanks, Bringing the murderous coward to the stake; He that conceals him, death.

EDMUND. When I dissuaded him from his intent, And found him pight to do it, with curst speech I threaten’d to discover him: he replied, ‘Thou unpossessing bastard! dost thou think, If I would stand against thee, would the reposal Of any trust, virtue, or worth in thee Make thy words faith’d? No: what I should deny As this I would; ay, though thou didst produce My very character, I’d turn it all To thy suggestion, plot, and damned practice: And thou must make a dullard of the world, If they not thought the profits of my death Were very pregnant and potential spurs To make thee seek it.

GLOUCESTER. O strange and fast’ned villain! Would he deny his letter, said he? I never got him.

[_Tucket within._]

Hark, the Duke’s trumpets! I know not why he comes. All ports I’ll bar; the villain shall not scape; The Duke must grant me that: besides, his picture I will send far and near, that all the kingdom May have due note of him; and of my land, Loyal and natural boy, I’ll work the means To make thee capable.

Enter Cornwall, Regan and Attendants.

CORNWALL. How now, my noble friend! since I came hither, Which I can call but now, I have heard strange news.

REGAN. If it be true, all vengeance comes too short Which can pursue th’offender. How dost, my lord?

GLOUCESTER. O madam, my old heart is crack’d, it’s crack’d!

REGAN. What, did my father’s godson seek your life? He whom my father nam’d? your Edgar?

GLOUCESTER. O lady, lady, shame would have it hid!

REGAN. Was he not companion with the riotous knights That tend upon my father?

GLOUCESTER. I know not, madam; ’tis too bad, too bad.

EDMUND. Yes, madam, he was of that consort.

REGAN. No marvel then though he were ill affected: ’Tis they have put him on the old man’s death, To have the expense and waste of his revenues. I have this present evening from my sister Been well inform’d of them; and with such cautions That if they come to sojourn at my house, I’ll not be there.

CORNWALL. Nor I, assure thee, Regan. Edmund, I hear that you have shown your father A childlike office.

EDMUND. It was my duty, sir.

GLOUCESTER. He did bewray his practice; and receiv’d This hurt you see, striving to apprehend him.

CORNWALL. Is he pursued?

GLOUCESTER. Ay, my good lord.

CORNWALL. If he be taken, he shall never more Be fear’d of doing harm: make your own purpose, How in my strength you please. For you, Edmund, Whose virtue and obedience doth this instant So much commend itself, you shall be ours: Natures of such deep trust we shall much need; You we first seize on.

EDMUND. I shall serve you, sir, truly, however else.

GLOUCESTER. For him I thank your grace.

CORNWALL. You know not why we came to visit you?

REGAN. Thus out of season, threading dark-ey’d night: Occasions, noble Gloucester, of some poise, Wherein we must have use of your advice. Our father he hath writ, so hath our sister, Of differences, which I best thought it fit To answer from our home; the several messengers From hence attend dispatch. Our good old friend, Lay comforts to your bosom; and bestow Your needful counsel to our business, Which craves the instant use.

GLOUCESTER. I serve you, madam: Your graces are right welcome.

[_Exeunt. Flourish._]

SCENE II. Before Gloucester’s Castle

Enter Kent and Oswald, severally.

OSWALD. Good dawning to thee, friend: art of this house?

KENT. Ay.

OSWALD. Where may we set our horses?

KENT. I’ the mire.

OSWALD. Prithee, if thou lov’st me, tell me.

KENT. I love thee not.

OSWALD. Why then, I care not for thee.

KENT. If I had thee in Lipsbury pinfold, I would make thee care for me.

OSWALD. Why dost thou use me thus? I know thee not.

KENT. Fellow, I know thee.

OSWALD. What dost thou know me for?

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

OSWALD. Why, what a monstrous fellow art thou, thus to rail on one that’s neither known of thee nor knows thee?

KENT. What a brazen-faced varlet art thou, to deny thou knowest me! Is it two days ago since I tripped up thy heels and beat thee before the King? Draw, you rogue: for, though it be night, yet the moon shines; I’ll make a sop o’ the moonshine of you: draw, you whoreson cullionly barber-monger, draw!

[_Drawing his sword._]

OSWALD. Away! I have nothing to do with thee.

KENT. Draw, you rascal: you come with letters against the King; and take vanity the puppet’s part against the royalty of her father: draw, you rogue, or I’ll so carbonado your shanks:—draw, you rascal; come your ways!

OSWALD. Help, ho! murder! help!

KENT. Strike, you slave; stand, rogue, stand; you neat slave, strike!

[_Beating him._]

OSWALD. Help, ho! murder! murder!

Enter Edmund, Cornwall, Regan, Gloucester and Servants.

EDMUND. How now! What’s the matter? Part!

KENT. With you, goodman boy, if you please: come, I’ll flesh ye; come on, young master.

GLOUCESTER. Weapons! arms! What’s the matter here?

CORNWALL. Keep peace, upon your lives, he dies that strikes again. What is the matter?

REGAN. The messengers from our sister and the King.

CORNWALL. What is your difference? Speak.

OSWALD. I am scarce in breath, my lord.

KENT. No marvel, you have so bestirr’d your valour. You cowardly rascal, nature disclaims in thee; a tailor made thee.

CORNWALL. Thou art a strange fellow: a tailor make a man?

KENT. Ay, a tailor, sir: a stonecutter or a painter could not have made him so ill, though he had been but two years at the trade.

CORNWALL. Speak yet, how grew your quarrel?

OSWALD. This ancient ruffian, sir, whose life I have spared at suit of his grey beard,—

KENT. Thou whoreson zed! thou unnecessary letter! My lord, if you’ll give me leave, I will tread this unbolted villain into mortar and daub the walls of a jakes with him. Spare my grey beard, you wagtail?

CORNWALL. Peace, sirrah! You beastly knave, know you no reverence?

KENT. Yes, sir; but anger hath a privilege.

CORNWALL. Why art thou angry?

KENT. That such a slave as this should wear a sword, Who wears no honesty. Such smiling rogues as these, Like rats, oft bite the holy cords a-twain Which are too intrince t’unloose; smooth every passion That in the natures of their lords rebel; Bring oil to fire, snow to their colder moods; Renege, affirm, and turn their halcyon beaks With every gale and vary of their masters, Knowing naught, like dogs, but following. A plague upon your epileptic visage! Smile you my speeches, as I were a fool? Goose, if I had you upon Sarum plain, I’d drive ye cackling home to Camelot.

CORNWALL. What, art thou mad, old fellow?

GLOUCESTER. How fell you out? Say that.

KENT. No contraries hold more antipathy Than I and such a knave.

CORNWALL. Why dost thou call him knave? What is his fault?

KENT. His countenance likes me not.

CORNWALL. No more perchance does mine, or his, or hers.

KENT. Sir, ’tis my occupation to be plain: I have seen better faces in my time Than stands on any shoulder that I see Before me at this instant.

CORNWALL. This is some fellow Who, having been prais’d for bluntness, doth affect A saucy roughness, and constrains the garb Quite from his nature: he cannot flatter, he, An honest mind and plain, he must speak truth! An they will take it, so; if not, he’s plain. These kind of knaves I know which in this plainness Harbour more craft and more corrupter ends Than twenty silly-ducking observants That stretch their duties nicely.

KENT. Sir, in good faith, in sincere verity, Under th’allowance of your great aspect, Whose influence, like the wreath of radiant fire On flickering Phoebus’ front,—

CORNWALL. What mean’st by this?

KENT. To go out of my dialect, which you discommend so much. I know, sir, I am no flatterer: he that beguiled you in a plain accent was a plain knave; which, for my part, I will not be, though I should win your displeasure to entreat me to’t.

CORNWALL. What was the offence you gave him?

OSWALD. I never gave him any: It pleas’d the King his master very late To strike at me, upon his misconstruction; When he, compact, and flattering his displeasure, Tripp’d me behind; being down, insulted, rail’d And put upon him such a deal of man, That worthied him, got praises of the King For him attempting who was self-subdu’d; And, in the fleshment of this dread exploit, Drew on me here again.

KENT. None of these rogues and cowards But Ajax is their fool.

CORNWALL. Fetch forth the stocks! You stubborn ancient knave, you reverent braggart, We’ll teach you.

KENT. Sir, I am too old to learn: Call not your stocks for me: I serve the King; On whose employment I was sent to you: You shall do small respect, show too bold malice Against the grace and person of my master, Stocking his messenger.

CORNWALL. Fetch forth the stocks! As I have life and honour, there shall he sit till noon.

REGAN. Till noon! Till night, my lord; and all night too!

KENT. Why, madam, if I were your father’s dog, You should not use me so.

REGAN. Sir, being his knave, I will.

[_Stocks brought out._]

CORNWALL. This is a fellow of the selfsame colour Our sister speaks of. Come, bring away the stocks!

GLOUCESTER. Let me beseech your grace not to do so: His fault is much, and the good King his master Will check him for’t: your purpos’d low correction Is such as basest and contemned’st wretches For pilferings and most common trespasses, Are punish’d with. The King must take it ill That he, so slightly valued in his messenger, Should have him thus restrained.

CORNWALL. I’ll answer that.

REGAN. My sister may receive it much more worse, To have her gentleman abus’d, assaulted, For following her affairs. Put in his legs.

[_Kent is put in the stocks._]

CORNWALL. Come, my good lord, away.

[_Exeunt all but Gloucester and Kent._]

GLOUCESTER. I am sorry for thee, friend; ’tis the Duke’s pleasure, Whose disposition, all the world well knows, Will not be rubb’d nor stopp’d; I’ll entreat for thee.

KENT. Pray do not, sir: I have watch’d, and travell’d hard; Some time I shall sleep out, the rest I’ll whistle. A good man’s fortune may grow out at heels: Give you good morrow!

GLOUCESTER. The Duke’s to blame in this: ’twill be ill taken.

[_Exit._]

KENT. Good King, that must approve the common saw, Thou out of heaven’s benediction com’st To the warm sun. Approach, thou beacon to this under globe, That by thy comfortable beams I may Peruse this letter. Nothing almost sees miracles But misery. I know ’tis from Cordelia, Who hath most fortunately been inform’d Of my obscured course. And shall find time From this enormous state, seeking to give Losses their remedies. All weary and o’erwatch’d, Take vantage, heavy eyes, not to behold This shameful lodging. Fortune, good night: smile once more, turn thy wheel!

[_He sleeps._]

SCENE III. The open Country

Enter Edgar.

EDGAR. I heard myself proclaim’d, And by the happy hollow of a tree Escap’d the hunt. No port is free, no place That guard and most unusual vigilance Does not attend my taking. While I may scape I will preserve myself: and am bethought To take the basest and most poorest shape That ever penury in contempt of man, Brought near to beast: my face I’ll grime with filth, Blanket my loins; elf all my hair in knots, And with presented nakedness outface The winds and persecutions of the sky. The country gives me proof and precedent Of Bedlam beggars, who, with roaring voices, Strike in their numb’d and mortified bare arms Pins, wooden pricks, nails, sprigs of rosemary; And with this horrible object, from low farms, Poor pelting villages, sheep-cotes, and mills, Sometime with lunatic bans, sometime with prayers, Enforce their charity. Poor Turlygod! poor Tom, That’s something yet: Edgar I nothing am.

[_Exit._]

SCENE IV. Before Gloucester’s Castle; Kent in the stocks

Enter Lear, Fool and Gentleman.

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

GENTLEMAN. As I learn’d, The night before there was no purpose in them Of this remove.

KENT. Hail to thee, noble master!

LEAR. Ha! Mak’st thou this shame thy pastime?

KENT. No, my lord.

FOOL. Ha, ha! he wears cruel garters. Horses are tied by the heads; dogs and bears by the neck, monkeys by the loins, and men by the legs: when a man is overlusty at legs, then he wears wooden nether-stocks.

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

KENT. It is both he and she, Your son and daughter.

LEAR. No.

KENT. Yes.

LEAR. No, I say.

KENT. I say, yea.

LEAR. No, no; they would not.

KENT. Yes, they have.

LEAR. By Jupiter, I swear no.

KENT. By Juno, I swear ay.

LEAR. They durst not do’t. They could not, would not do’t; ’tis worse than murder, To do upon respect such violent outrage: Resolve me, with all modest haste, which way Thou mightst deserve or they impose this usage, Coming from us.

KENT. My lord, when at their home I did commend your highness’ letters to them, Ere I was risen from the place that show’d My duty kneeling, came there a reeking post, Stew’d in his haste, half breathless, panting forth From Goneril his mistress salutations; Deliver’d letters, spite of intermission, Which presently they read; on those contents, They summon’d up their meiny, straight took horse; Commanded me to follow and attend The leisure of their answer; gave me cold looks: And meeting here the other messenger, Whose welcome I perceiv’d had poison’d mine, Being the very fellow which of late Display’d so saucily against your highness, Having more man than wit about me, drew; He rais’d the house with loud and coward cries. Your son and daughter found this trespass worth The shame which here it suffers.

FOOL. Winter’s not gone yet, if the wild geese fly that way. Fathers that wear rags Do make their children blind, But fathers that bear bags Shall see their children kind. Fortune, that arrant whore, Ne’er turns the key to th’ poor. But for all this, thou shalt have as many dolours for thy daughters as thou canst tell in a year.

LEAR. O, how this mother swells up toward my heart! _Hysterica passio_, down, thou climbing sorrow, Thy element’s below! Where is this daughter?

KENT. With the earl, sir, here within.

LEAR. Follow me not; stay here.

[_Exit._]

GENTLEMAN. Made you no more offence but what you speak of?

KENT. None. How chance the King comes with so small a number?

FOOL. An thou hadst been set i’ the stocks for that question, thou hadst well deserved it.

KENT. Why, fool?

FOOL. We’ll set thee to school to an ant, to teach thee there’s no labouring i’the winter. All that follow their noses are led by their eyes but blind men; and there’s not a nose among twenty but can smell him that’s stinking. Let go thy hold when a great wheel runs down a hill, lest it break thy neck with following it; but the great one that goes upward, let him draw thee after. When a wise man gives thee better counsel, give me mine again: I would have none but knaves follow it, since a fool gives it. That sir which serves and seeks for gain, And follows but for form, Will pack when it begins to rain, And leave thee in the storm. But I will tarry; the fool will stay, And let the wise man fly: The knave turns fool that runs away; The fool no knave perdy.

KENT. Where learn’d you this, fool?

FOOL. Not i’ the stocks, fool.

Enter Lear and Gloucester.

LEAR. Deny to speak with me? They are sick? they are weary? They have travell’d all the night? Mere fetches; The images of revolt and flying off. Fetch me a better answer.

GLOUCESTER. My dear lord, You know the fiery quality of the Duke; How unremovable and fix’d he is In his own course.

LEAR. Vengeance! plague! death! confusion! Fiery? What quality? Why, Gloucester, Gloucester, I’d speak with the Duke of Cornwall and his wife.

GLOUCESTER. Well, my good lord, I have inform’d them so.

LEAR. Inform’d them! Dost thou understand me, man?

GLOUCESTER. Ay, my good lord.