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

>Most serpent-like, upon the very heart:—

All the stor’d vengeances of heaven fall

On her ingrateful top! Strike her young bones,

You taking airs, with lameness!

 

Corn.

Fie, sir, fie!

 

Lear.

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!

 

Reg.

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’ the kingdom hast thou not forgot,

Wherein I thee endow’d.

 

Reg.

Good sir, to the purpose.

 

Lear.

Who put my man i’ the stocks?

 

[Tucket within.]

 

Corn.

What trumpet’s that?

 

Reg.

I know’t—my sister’s: this approves her letter,

That she would soon be here.

 

[Enter Oswald.]

 

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!

 

Corn.

What means your grace?

 

Lear.

Who stock’d my servant? Regan, I have good hope

Thou didst not know on’t.—Who comes here? O heavens!

 

[Enter Goneril.]

 

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!—

[To Goneril.] Art not asham’d to look upon this beard?—

O Regan, wilt thou take her by the hand?

 

Gon.

Why not by the hand, sir? How have I offended?

All’s not offence that indiscretion finds

And dotage terms so.

 

Lear.

O sides, you are too tough!

Will you yet hold?—How came my man i’ the stocks?

 

Corn.

I set him there, sir: but his own disorders

Deserv’d much less advancement.

 

Lear.

You? did you?

 

Reg.

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 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 to Oswald.]

 

Gon.

At your choice, sir.

 

Lear.

I pr’ythee, 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.

 

Reg.

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.

 

Lear.

Is this well spoken?

 

Reg.

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.

 

Gon.

Why might not you, my lord, receive attendance

From those that she calls servants, or from mine?

 

Reg.

Why not, my lord? If then they chanc’d 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,—

 

Reg.

And in good time you gave it.

 

Lear.

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?

 

Reg.

And speak’t again my lord; no more with me.

 

Lear.

Those wicked creatures yet do look well-favour’d

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.

 

Gon.

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?

 

Reg.

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

Shall break into a hundred thousand flaws

Or ere I’ll weep.—O fool, I shall go mad!

 

[Exeunt Lear, Gloster, Kent, and Fool. Storm heard at a

distance.]

 

Corn.

Let us withdraw; ‘twill be a storm.

 

Reg.

This house is little: the old man and his people

Cannot be well bestow’d.

 

Gon.

‘Tis his own blame; hath put himself from rest

And must needs taste his folly.

 

Reg.

For his particular, I’ll receive him gladly,

But not one follower.

 

Gon.

So am I purpos’d.

Where is my lord of Gloster?

 

Corn.

Followed the old man forth:—he is return’d.

 

[Re-enter Gloster.]

 

Glou.

The king is in high rage.

 

Corn.

Whither is he going?

 

Glou.

He calls to horse; but will I know not whither.

 

Corn.

‘Tis best to give him way; he leads himself.

 

Gon.

My lord, entreat him by no means to stay.

 

Glou.

Alack, the night comes on, and the high winds

Do sorely ruffle; for many miles about

There’s scarce a bush.

 

Reg.

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 abus’d, wisdom bids fear.

 

Corn.

Shut up your doors, my lord; ‘tis a wild night:

My Regan counsels well: come out o’ the storm.

 

[Exeunt.]

 

ACT III.

 

Scene I. A Heath.

 

[A storm with thunder and lightning. Enter Kent and a Gentleman,

meeting.]

 

Kent.

Who’s there, besides foul weather?

 

Gent.

One minded like the weather, most unquietly.

 

Kent.

I know you. Where’s the king?

 

Gent.

Contending with the fretful elements;

Bids the wind blow the earth into the sea,

Or swell the curled 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-pinched wolf

Keep their fur dry, unbonneted he runs,

And bids what will take all.

 

Kent.

But who is with him?

 

Gent.

None but the fool, who labours to out-jest

His heart-struck injuries.

 

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 be cover’d

With mutual cunning, ‘twixt Albany and Cornwall;

Who have,—as who have not, that their great stars

Throne and set high?—servants, who seem no less,

Which are to France the spies and speculations

Intelligent of our state; what hath been seen,

Either in snuffs and packings of the dukes;

Or the hard rein which both of them have borne

Against the old kind king; or something deeper,

Whereof, perchance, these are but furnishings;—

But, true it is, from France there comes a power

Into this scatter’d 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.

I am a gentleman of blood and breeding;

And from some knowledge and assurance offer

This office to you.

 

Gent.

I will talk further with you.

 

Kent.

No, do not.

For confirmation that I am much more

Than my out wall, open this purse, and take

What it contains. If you shall see Cordelia,—

As fear not but you shall,—show her this ring;

And she will tell you who your fellow is

That yet you do not know. Fie on this storm!

I will go seek the king.

 

Gent.

Give me your hand: have you no more to say?

 

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.

 

[Exeunt severally.]

 

Scene II. Another part of the heath. Storm continues.

 

[Enter Lear and Fool.]

 

Lear.

Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow!

You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout

Till you have drench’d our steeples, drown’d the cocks!

You sulphurous and thought-executing fires,

Vaunt couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts,

Singe my white head! And thou, all-shaking thunder,

Strike flat the thick rotundity o’ the world!

Crack nature’s moulds, all germens spill at once,

That make ingrateful man!

 

Fool.

O nuncle, court holy water in a dry house is better than this

rain water out o’ door. Good nuncle, in; and ask thy daughters

blessing: here’s a night pities nether 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, call’d you children;

You owe me no subscription: then let fall

Your horrible pleasure; here I stand, your slave,

A poor, infirm, weak, and despis’d old