William Shakespeare: King Lear, Act II, Scene IV
Enter King Lear, Fool, and Gentleman
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's over-lusty at legs, then he wears wooden nether-stocks.
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.
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 whose 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 perceived, had poison'd mine,— Being the very fellow that of late Display'd 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.
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 the poor.
But, for all this, thou shalt have as many dolours for thy daughters as thou canst tell in a year.
O, how this mother swells up toward my heart! Hysterica passio, down, thou climbing sorrow, Thy element's below! Where is this daughter?
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 up the hill, 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.
Re-enter King Lear with Gloucester
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.
My dear lord, You know the fiery quality of the duke; How unremoveable and fix'd he is In his own course.
Vengeance! plague! death! confusion! Fiery? what quality? Why, Gloucester, Gloucester, I'ld speak with the Duke of Cornwall and his wife.
The king would speak with Cornwall; the dear father Would with his daughter speak, commands her service: Are they inform'd of this? My breath and blood! Fiery? the fiery duke? Tell the hot duke that— No, but not yet: may be he is not well: Infirmity doth still neglect all office Whereto our health is bound; we are not ourselves When nature, being oppress'd, commands the mind To suffer with the body: I'll forbear; And am fall'n out with my more headier will, To take the indisposed and sickly fit For the sound man. Death on my state! wherefore
Looking on Kent
Should he sit here? This act persuades me That this remotion of the duke and her Is practise only. Give me my servant forth. Go tell the duke and 's wife I'ld 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.
Cry to it, nuncle, as the cockney did to the eels when she put 'em i' the paste alive; she knapped 'em o' the coxcombs with a stick, and cried 'Down, wantons, down!' 'Twas her brother that, in pure kindness to his horse, buttered his hay.
Enter Cornwall, Regan, Gloucester, and Servants
Kent is set at liberty
Regan, I think you are; I know what reason I have to think so: if thou shouldst not be glad, I would divorce me from thy mother's tomb, Sepulchring an adultress.
O, are you free? Some other time for that. Beloved Regan, Thy sister's naught: O Regan, she hath tied Sharp-tooth'd unkindness, like a vulture, here:
Points to his heart
I can scarce speak to thee; thou'lt not believe With how depraved a quality—O Regan!
I pray you, sir, take patience: I have hope. You less know how to value her desert Than she to scant her duty.
I cannot think my sister in the least Would fail her obligation: if, sir, perchance She have restrain'd the riots of your followers, 'Tis on such ground, and to such wholesome end, As clears her from all blame.
O, sir, you are old. Nature in you stands on the very verge Of her 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 wrong'd her, sir.
Ask her forgiveness? Do you but mark how this becomes the house: '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.'
Never, Regan: She hath abated me of half my train; Look'd black upon me; struck me with her tongue, Most serpent-like, upon the very heart: All the stored vengeances of heaven fall On her ingrateful top! Strike her young bones, You taking airs, with lameness!
You nimble lightnings, dart your blinding flames Into her scornful eyes! Infect her beauty, You fen-suck'd fogs, drawn by the powerful sun, To fall and blast her pride!
No, Regan, thou shalt never have my curse: Thy tender-hefted nature shall not give Thee o'er to harshness: her eyes are fierce; but thine Do comfort and not burn. 'Tis not in thee To grudge my pleasures, to cut off my train, To bandy hasty words, to scant my sizes, And in conclusion to oppose the bolt Against my coming in: thou better know'st The offices of nature, bond of childhood, Effects of courtesy, dues of gratitude; Thy half o' the kingdom hast thou not forgot, Wherein I thee endow'd.
I know't, my sister's: this approves her letter, That she would soon be here.
Is your lady come?
This is a slave, whose easy-borrow'd pride Dwells in the fickle grace of her he follows. Out, varlet, from my sight!
Who stock'd my servant? Regan, I have good hope Thou didst not know on't. Who comes here? O heavens,
If you do love old men, if your sweet sway Allow obedience, if yourselves are old, Make it your cause; send down, and take my part!
Art not ashamed to look upon this beard? O Regan, wilt thou take her by the hand?
Why not by the hand, sir? How have I offended? All's not offence that indiscretion finds And dotage terms so.
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.
Return to her, and fifty men dismiss'd? No, rather I abjure all roofs, and choose To wage against the enmity o' the air; To be a comrade with the wolf and owl,— Necessity's sharp pinch! Return with her? Why, the hot-blooded France, that dowerless took Our youngest born, I could as well be brought To knee his throne, and, squire-like; pension beg To keep base life afoot. Return with her? Persuade me rather to be slave and sumpter To this detested groom.
Pointing at Oswald
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, an embossed carbuncle, In my corrupted blood. But I'll not chide thee; Let shame come when it will, I do not call it: I do not bid the thunder-bearer shoot, Nor tell tales of thee to high-judging Jove: Mend when thou canst; be better at thy leisure: I can be patient; I can stay with Regan, I and my hundred knights.
Not altogether so: I look'd 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.
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.
Why might not you, my lord, receive attendance From those that she calls servants or from mine?
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.
Made you my guardians, my depositaries; But kept a reservation to be follow'd With such a number. What, must I come to you With five and twenty, Regan? said you so?
Those wicked creatures yet do look well-favour'd, When others are more wicked: not being the worst Stands in some rank of praise.
I'll go with thee: Thy fifty yet doth double five and twenty, And thou art twice her love.
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?
O, reason not the need: our basest beggars Are in the poorest thing superfluous: Allow not nature more than nature needs, Man's life's as 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 stir 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 Shall break into a hundred thousand flaws, Or ere I'll weep. O fool, I shall go mad!
Exeunt King Lear, Gloucester, Kent, and Fool
Storm and tempest
Alack, the night comes on, and the bleak winds Do sorely ruffle; for many miles about There's scarce a bush.
O, sir, to wilful 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.
Shut up your doors, my lord; 'tis a wild night: My Regan counsels well; come out o' the storm.