Page 44 of 119
Enter Edgar.
EDGAR.
Yet better thus, and known to be contemn’d,
Than still contemn’d and flatter’d. 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.
Enter Gloucester, led by an Old Man.
But who comes here? 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.
GLOUCESTER.
Away, get thee away; good friend, be gone.
Thy comforts can do me no good at all;
Thee they may hurt.
OLD MAN.
You cannot see your way.
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 abused 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?
GLOUCESTER.
Is it a beggar-man?
OLD MAN.
Madman, and beggar too.
GLOUCESTER.
He has some reason, else he could not beg.
I’ the 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 the gods,
They kill us for their sport.
EDGAR.
[Aside.] How should this be?
Bad is the trade that must play fool to sorrow,
Angering itself and others. Bless thee, master!
GLOUCESTER.
Is that the naked fellow?
OLD MAN.
Ay, my lord.
GLOUCESTER.
Then prythee get thee away. If for my sake
Thou wilt o’ertake us hence a mile or twain,
I’ the 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.
GLOUCESTER.
’Tis the time’s plague when madmen lead the blind.
Do as I bid thee, or rather do thy pleasure;
Above the rest, be gone.
OLD MAN.
I’ll bring him the best ’parel that I have,
Come on’t what will.
[Exit.]
GLOUCESTER.
Sirrah naked fellow.
EDGAR.
Poor Tom’s a-cold.
[Aside.] I cannot daub it further.
GLOUCESTER.
Come hither, fellow.
EDGAR.
[Aside.] And yet I must. Bless thy sweet eyes, they bleed.
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; Hobbididence, prince of darkness; Mahu, of
stealing; Modo, of murder; Flibbertigibbet, of mopping and
mowing, who since possesses chambermaids and waiting women. So,
bless thee, master!
GLOUCESTER.
Here, take this purse, thou whom the heaven’s 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.
GLOUCESTER.
There is a cliff, whose high and bending head
Looks fearfully in the confined 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.
[Exeunt.]
Enter Goneril, Edmund; Oswald meeting them.
GONERIL.
Welcome, my lord. I marvel our mild husband
Not met us on the way. Now, where’s your master?
OSWALD.
Madam, within; but never man so chang’d.
I told him of the army that was landed;
He smil’d 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 inform’d him, then he call’d me sot,
And told me I had turn’d 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. [Giving a favour.]
Wear this; spare speech;
Decline your head. 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.
[Exit Edmund.]
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.
[Exit.]
Enter Albany.
GONERIL.
I have been worth the whistle.
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.
ALBANY.
Wisdom and goodness to the vile seem vile;
Filths savour but themselves. What have you done?
Tigers, not daughters, what have you perform’d?
A father, and a gracious aged man,
Whose reverence even the head-lugg’d 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 benefitted!
If that the heavens do not their visible spirits
Send quickly down to tame these vile offences,
It will come,
Humanity must perforce prey on itself,
Like monsters of the deep.
GONERIL.
Milk-liver’d man!
That bear’st a cheek for blows, a head for wrongs;
Who hast not in thy brows an eye discerning
Thine honour from thy suffering; that not know’st
Fools do those villains pity who are punish’d
Ere they have done their mischief. Where’s thy drum?
France spreads his banners in our noiseless land;
With plumed helm thy state begins to threat,
Whilst thou, a moral fool, sitt’st still, and criest
‘Alack, why does he so?’
ALBANY.
See thyself, devil!
Proper deformity seems not in the fiend
So horrid as in woman.
GONERIL.
O vain fool!
ALBANY.
Thou changed and self-cover’d thing, for shame!
Be-monster 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.
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.
ALBANY.
Gloucester’s eyes!
MESSENGER.
A servant that he bred, thrill’d with remorse,
Oppos’d against the act, bending his sword
To his great master; who, thereat enrag’d,
Flew on him, and amongst them fell’d him dead;
But not without that harmful stroke which since
Hath pluck’d him after.
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;
’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.
[Exit.]
ALBANY.
Where was his son when they did take his eyes?
MESSENGER.
Come with my lady hither.
ALBANY.
He is not here.
MESSENGER.
No, my good lord; I met him back again.
ALBANY.
Knows he the wickedness?
MESSENGER.
Ay, my good lord. ’Twas he inform’d against him;
And quit the house on purpose, that their punishment
Might have the freer course.
ALBANY.
Gloucester, I live
To thank thee for the love thou show’dst the King,
And to revenge thine eyes. Come hither, friend,
Tell me what more thou know’st.
[Exeunt.]
Enter Kent and a Gentleman.
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.
KENT.
Who hath he left behind him general?
GENTLEMAN.
The Mareschal of France, Monsieur La Far.
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 trill’d down
Her delicate cheek. It seem’d she was a queen
Over her passion; who, most rebel-like,
Sought to be king o’er her.
KENT.
O, then it mov’d 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 day. Those happy smilets
That play’d on her ripe lip seem’d not to know
What guests were in her eyes; which parted thence
As pearls from diamonds dropp’d. In brief,
Sorrow would be a rarity most belov’d,
If all could so become it.
KENT.
Made she no verbal question?
GENTLEMAN.
Faith, once or twice she heav’d the name of ‘father’
Pantingly forth, as if it press’d her heart;
Cried ‘Sisters, sisters! Shame of ladies! sisters!
Kent! father! sisters! What, i’ the storm? i’ the night?
Let pity not be believ’d!’ There she shook
The holy water from her heavenly eyes,
And clamour master’d her: then away she started
To deal with grief alone.
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.
KENT.
Was this before the King return’d?
GENTLEMAN.
No, since.
KENT.
Well, sir, the poor distressed Lear’s i’ the 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?
KENT.
A sovereign shame so elbows him. His own unkindness,
That stripp’d her from his benediction, turn’d 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!
KENT.
Of Albany’s and Cornwall’s powers you heard not?
GENTLEMAN.
’Tis so; they are afoot.
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.
[Exeunt.]
Enter with drum and colours, Cordelia, Physician and Soldiers.
CORDELIA.
Alack, ’tis he: why, he was met even now
As mad as the vex’d sea; singing aloud;
Crown’d with rank fumiter and furrow weeds,
With harlocks, hemlock, nettles, cuckoo-flowers,
Darnel, and all the idle weeds that grow
In our sustaining corn. A century send forth;
Search every acre in the high-grown field,
And bring him to our eye.
[Exit an Officer.]
What can man’s wisdom
In the restoring his bereaved sense,
He that helps him take all my outward worth.
PHYSICIAN.
There is means, madam:
Our foster nurse of nature is repose,
The which he lacks; that to provoke in him
Are many simples operative, whose power
Will close the eye of anguish.
CORDELIA.
All bless’d secrets,
All you unpublish’d virtues of the earth,
Spring with my tears! Be aidant and remediate
In the good man’s distress! Seek, seek for him;
Lest his ungovern’d rage dissolve the life
That wants the means to lead it.
Enter a Messenger.
MESSENGER.
News, madam;
The British powers are marching hitherward.
CORDELIA.
’Tis known before. Our preparation stands
In expectation of them. O dear father,
It is thy business that I go about;
Therefore great France
My mourning and important tears hath pitied.
No blown ambition doth our arms incite,
But love, dear love, and our ag’d father’s right:
Soon may I hear and see him!
[Exeunt.]
Enter Regan and Oswald.
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 charg’d my duty in this business.
REGAN.
Why should she write to Edmund? Might not you
Transport her purposes by word? Belike,
Somethings, 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 oeillades 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 talk’d,
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.
[Exeunt.]
Enter Gloucester, and Edgar dressed like a peasant.
GLOUCESTER.
When shall I come to the top of that same hill?
EDGAR.
You do climb up it now. Look how we labour.
GLOUCESTER.
Methinks the ground is even.
EDGAR.
Horrible steep.
Hark, do you hear the sea?
GLOUCESTER.
No, truly.
EDGAR.
Why, then, your other senses grow imperfect
By your eyes’ anguish.
GLOUCESTER.
So may it be indeed.
Methinks thy voice is alter’d; and thou speak’st
In better phrase and matter than thou didst.
EDGAR.
Y’are much deceiv’d: in nothing am I chang’d
But in my garments.
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. Half way 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,
Diminish’d to her cock; her cock a buoy
Almost too small for sight: the murmuring surge
That on th’unnumber’d idle pebble chafes
Cannot be heard so high. I’ll look no more;
Lest my brain turn, and the deficient sight
Topple down headlong.
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.
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! Go thou further off;
Bid me farewell, and let me hear thee going.
EDGAR.
Now fare ye well, good sir.
[Seems to go.]
GLOUCESTER.
With all my heart.
EDGAR.
[Aside.] Why I do trifle thus with his despair
Is done to cure it.
GLOUCESTER.
O you mighty gods!
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 loathed part of nature should
Burn itself out. If Edgar live, O, bless him!
Now, fellow, fare thee well.
EDGAR.
Gone, sir, farewell.
[Gloucester leaps, and falls along]
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?
GLOUCESTER.
Away, and let me die.
EDGAR.
Hadst thou been aught but gossamer, feathers, air,
So many fathom down precipitating,
Thou’dst shiver’d 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 is a miracle. Speak yet again.
GLOUCESTER.
But have I fall’n, or no?
EDGAR.
From the dread summit of this chalky bourn.
Look up a-height, the shrill-gorg’d lark so far
Cannot be seen or heard. Do but look up.
GLOUCESTER.
Alack, I have no eyes.
Is wretchedness depriv’d 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.
Up, so. How is’t? Feel you your legs? You stand.
GLOUCESTER.
Too well, too well.
EDGAR.
This is above all strangeness.
Upon the crown o’ the cliff what thing was that
Which parted from you?
GLOUCESTER.
A poor unfortunate beggar.
EDGAR.
As I stood here below, methought his eyes
Were two full moons; he had a thousand noses,
Horns whelk’d and waved like the enraged sea.
It was some fiend. Therefore, thou happy father,
Think that the clearest gods, who make them honours
Of men’s impossibilities, have preserv’d thee.
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. But who comes here?
Enter Lear, fantastically dressed up with flowers.
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 crow-keeper: 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’ the clout, i’
the clout. Hewgh! Give the word.
EDGAR.
Sweet marjoram.
LEAR.
Pass.
GLOUCESTER.
I know that voice.
LEAR.
Ha! Goneril with a white beard! They flattered me like a dog; and told
me I had white hairs in my beard ere the black ones were there. To say
‘ay’ and ‘no’ to everything 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.
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, to sweeten my imagination. There’s money for thee.
GLOUCESTER.
O, let me kiss that hand!
LEAR.
Let me wipe it first; it smells of mortality.
GLOUCESTER.
O ruin’d 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 squiny at me?
No, do thy worst, blind Cupid; I’ll not love.
Read thou this challenge; mark but the penning of it.
GLOUCESTER.
Were all the letters suns, I could not see one.
EDGAR.
I would not take this from report,
It is, and my heart breaks at it.
LEAR.
Read.
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.
GLOUCESTER.
I see it feelingly.
LEAR.
What, art mad? A man may see how the world goes with no eyes.
Look with thine ears. See how yon justice rails upon yon 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?
GLOUCESTER.
Ay, sir.
LEAR.
And the creature run from the cur? There thou mightst 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 thine own back;
Thou hotly lusts to use her in that kind
For which thou whipp’st her. The usurer hangs the cozener.
Through tatter’d clothes great vices do appear;
Robes and furr’d 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 the 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.
O, matter and impertinency mix’d!
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.
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 with Attendants.
GENTLEMAN.
O, here he is: 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 the 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 water-pots,
Ay, and for laying autumn’s dust.
GENTLEMAN.
Good sir.
LEAR.
I will die bravely, like a smug bridegroom.
What! I will be jovial. Come, come,
I am a king, my masters, know you that.
GENTLEMAN.
You are a royal one, and we obey you.
LEAR.
Then there’s life in’t. Come, and you get it,
You shall get it by running. Sa, sa, sa, sa!
[Exit running. Attendants follow.]
GENTLEMAN.
A sight most pitiful in the meanest wretch,
Past speaking of in a king! Thou hast one 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 favour,
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 mov’d on.
EDGAR.
I thank you, sir.
[Exit Gentleman.]
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.
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.
GLOUCESTER.
Hearty thanks:
The bounty and the benison of heaven
To boot, and boot.
Enter Oswald.
OSWALD.
A proclaim’d prize! Most happy!
That eyeless head of thine was first fram’d flesh
To raise my fortunes. Thou old unhappy traitor,
Briefly thyself remember. The sword is out
That must destroy thee.
GLOUCESTER.
Now let thy friendly hand
Put strength enough to’t.
[Edgar interposes.]
OSWALD.
Wherefore, bold peasant,
Dar’st thou support a publish’d 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 volke 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, and Edgar knocks him down.]
OSWALD.
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 British party. O, untimely death!
[Dies.]
EDGAR.
I know thee well. A serviceable villain,
As duteous to the vices of thy mistress
As badness would desire.
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:
Leave, gentle wax; and, manners, blame us not.
To know our enemies’ minds, we rip their hearts,
Their papers is more lawful.
[Reads.] ‘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 gaol; from the loathed warmth whereof deliver me,
and supply the place for your labour. ‘Your (wife, so I would say)
affectionate servant, ‘Goneril.’
O indistinguish’d 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-practis’d Duke: for him ’tis well
That of thy death and business I can tell.
[Exit Edgar, dragging out the body.]
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 sever’d from my griefs,
And woes by wrong imaginations lose
The knowledge of themselves.
[A 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.
[Exeunt.]
Lear on a bed, asleep, soft music playing; Physician, Gentleman and others attending.
Enter Cordelia and Kent.
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.
KENT.
To be acknowledg’d, madam, is o’erpaid.
All my reports go with the modest truth;
Nor more, nor clipp’d, but so.
CORDELIA.
Be better suited,
These weeds are memories of those worser hours:
I prythee put them off.
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. [To the Physician.] How, does the
King?
PHYSICIAN.
Madam, sleeps still.
CORDELIA.
O you kind gods,
Cure this great breach in his abused nature!
The untun’d and jarring senses, O, wind up
Of this child-changed father.
PHYSICIAN.
So please your majesty
That we may wake the King: he hath slept long.
CORDELIA.
Be govern’d by your knowledge, and proceed
I’ the sway of your own will. Is he array’d?
PHYSICIAN.
Ay, madam. In the heaviness of sleep
We put fresh garments on him.
Be by, good madam, when we do awake him;
I doubt not of his temperance.
CORDELIA.
Very well.
PHYSICIAN.
Please you draw near. Louder the music there!
CORDELIA.
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!
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 oppos’d against the warring 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.
PHYSICIAN.
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’ the 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: when did you die?
CORDELIA.
Still, still, far wide!
PHYSICIAN.
He’s scarce awake: let him alone awhile.
LEAR.
Where have I been? Where am I? Fair daylight?
I am mightily abus’d. 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 pin prick. Would I were assur’d
Of my condition!
CORDELIA.
O, look upon me, sir,
And hold your hands in benediction o’er me.
No, sir, you must not kneel.
LEAR.
Pray, do not mock me:
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.
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?
KENT.
In your own kingdom, sir.
LEAR.
Do not abuse me.
PHYSICIAN.
Be comforted, good madam, the great rage,
You see, is kill’d 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.
[Exeunt Lear, Cordelia, Physician and Attendants.]
GENTLEMAN.
Holds it true, sir, that the Duke of Cornwall was so slain?
KENT.
Most certain, sir.
GENTLEMAN.
Who is conductor of his people?
KENT.
As ’tis said, the bastard son of Gloucester.
GENTLEMAN.
They say Edgar, his banished son, is with the Earl of Kent
in Germany.
KENT.
Report is changeable. ’Tis time to look about; the powers of
the kingdom approach apace.
GENTLEMAN.
The arbitrement is like to be bloody.
Fare you well, sir.
[Exit.]
KENT.
My point and period will be throughly wrought,
Or well or ill, as this day’s battle’s fought.
[Exit.]
