King Lear, William Shakespeare [android e book reader .TXT] 📗

>Mess.

O, my good lord, the Duke of Cornwall’s dead;

Slain by his servant, going to put out

The other eye of Gloster.

 

Alb.

Gloster’s eyes!

 

Mess.

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.

 

Alb.

This shows you are above,

You justicers, that these our nether crimes

So speedily can venge!—But, O poor Gloster!

Lost he his other eye?

 

Mess.

Both, both, my lord.—

This letter, madam, craves a speedy answer;

‘Tis from your sister.

 

Gon.

[Aside.] One way I like this well;

But being widow, and my Gloster 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.]

 

Alb.

Where was his son when they did take his eyes?

 

Mess.

Come with my lady hither.

 

Alb.

He is not here.

 

Mess.

No, my good lord; I met him back again.

 

Alb.

Knows he the wickedness?

 

Mess.

Ay, my good lord. ‘Twas he inform’d against him;

And quit the house on purpose, that their punishment

Might have the freer course.

 

Alb.

Gloster, 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.]

 

Scene III. The French camp near Dover.

 

[Enter Kent and a Gentleman.]

 

Kent.

Why the king of France is so suddenly gone back know you the

reason?

 

Gent.

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?

 

Gent.

The Mareschal of France, Monsieur La Far.

 

Kent.

Did your letters pierce the queen to any demonstration of grief?

 

Gent.

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.

 

Gent.

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?

 

Gent.

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 moisten’d: 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 mate could not beget

Such different issues. You spoke not with her since?

 

Gent.

No.

 

Kent.

Was this before the king return’d?

 

Gent.

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.

 

Gent.

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.

 

Gent.

Alack, poor gentleman!

 

Kent.

Of Albany’s and Cornwall’s powers you heard not?

 

Gent.

‘Tis so; they are a-foot.

 

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.]

 

Scene IV. The French camp. A Tent.

 

[Enter Cordelia, Physician, and Soldiers.]

 

Cor.

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.

 

Phys.

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.

 

Cor.

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.]

 

Mess.

News, madam;

The British powers are marching hitherward.

 

Cor.

‘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.]

 

Scene V. A Room in Gloster’s Castle.

 

[Enter Regan and Oswald.]

 

Reg.

But are my brother’s powers set forth?

 

Osw.

Ay, madam.

 

Reg.

Himself in person there?

 

Osw.

Madam, with much ado.

Your sister is the better soldier.

 

Reg.

Lord Edmund spake not with your lord at home?

 

Osw.

No, madam.

 

Reg.

What might import my sister’s letter to him?

 

Osw.

I know not, lady.

 

Reg.

Faith, he is posted hence on serious matter.

It was great ignorance, Gloster’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 despatch

His nighted life; moreover, to descry

The strength o’ the enemy.

 

Osw.

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

 

Reg.

Our troops set forth to-morrow: stay with us;

The ways are dangerous.

 

Osw.

I may not, madam:

My lady charg’d my duty in this business.

 

Reg.

Why should she write to Edmund? Might not you

Transport her purposes by word? Belike,

Something,—I know not what:—I’ll love thee much—

Let me unseal the letter.

 

Osw.

Madam, I had rather,—

 

Reg.

I know your lady does not love her husband;

I am sure of that: and at her late being here

She gave strange eyeliads and most speaking looks

To noble Edmund. I know you are of her bosom.

 

Osw.

I, madam?

 

Reg.

I speak in understanding; you 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.

 

Osw.

Would I could meet him, madam! I should show

What party I do follow.

 

Reg.

Fare thee well.

 

[Exeunt.]

 

Scene VI. The country near Dover.

 

[Enter Gloster, and Edgar dressed like a peasant.]

 

Glou.

When shall I come to the top of that same hill?

 

Edg.

You do climb up it now: look, how we labour.

 

Glou.

Methinks the ground is even.

 

Edg.

Horrible steep.

Hark, do you hear the sea?

 

Glou.

No, truly.

 

Edg.

Why, then, your other senses grow imperfect

By your eyes’ anguish.

 

Glou.

So may it be indeed:

Methinks thy voice is alter’d; and thou speak’st

In better phrase and matter than thou didst.

 

Edg.

You are much deceiv’d: in nothing am I chang’d

But in my garments.

 

Glou.

Methinks you’re better spoken.

 

Edg.

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 the 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.

 

Glou.

Set me where you stand.

 

Edg.

Give me your hand:—you are now within a foot

Of th’ extreme verge: for all beneath the moon

Would I not leap upright.

 

Glou.

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.

 

Edg.

Now fare ye well, good sir.

 

[Seems to go.]

 

Glou.

With all my heart.

 

Edg.

[Aside.] Why I do trifle thus with his despair

Is done to cure it.

 

Glou.

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.

 

Edg.

Gone, sir:—farewell.—

 

[Gloster 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?

 

Glou.

Away, and let me die.

 

Edg.

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.

 

Glou.

But have I fall’n, or no?

 

Edg.

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.

 

Glou.

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.

 

Edg.

Give me your arm:

Up:—so.—How is’t? Feel you your legs? You stand.

 

Glou.

Too well, too well.

 

Edg.

This is above all strangeness.

Upon the crown o’ the cliff what thing was that

Which parted from you?

 

Glou.

A poor unfortunate beggar.

 

Edg.

As I stood here below, methought his eyes

Were two full moons; he had a thousand noses,

Horns whelk’d and wav’d like the enridged