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, 235
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 240
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? 245
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 250
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 255
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 260
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 265
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, 270
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: 275
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, — 280
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 285
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, — 290
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 295
Or ere I’ll weep. O fool! I shall go mad. [Exeunt LEAR, GLOUCESTER, KENT, and Fool.
Corn. Let us withdraw; ‘twill be a storm. [Storm heard at a distance.
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, 300
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 Gloucester? 305
Corn. Follow’d the old man forth. He is return’d.
Re-enter GLOUCESTER.
Glo. The king is in high rage.
Corn. Whither is he going?
Glo. He calls to horse; but will I know not whither. 310
Corn. ’Tis best to give him way; he leads himself.
Gon. My lord, entreat him by no means to stay.
Glo. Alack! the night comes on, and the bleak winds
Do sorely ruffle; for many miles about
There’s scarce a bush. 315
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 320
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 here, beside foul weather?
Gent. One minded like the weather, most unquietly.
Kent. I know you. Where’s the king? 5
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, 10
Catch in their fury, and make nothing of;
Strives in his little world of man to out-scorn
The to-and-fro-conflicting wind and rain.
This night, wherein the cub-drawn bear would couch,
The lion and the belly-pinched wolf 15
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. 20
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 Corn-wall; 25
Who have — as who have not, that their great stars
Thron’d 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, 30
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, 35
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 40
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 45
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 50
What it contains. If you shall see Cordelia, —
As doubt 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. 55
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. 60
Act III. Scene II.
Another Part of the Heath. Storm still.
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! 5
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 10
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 neither wise man nor fool.
Lear. Rumble thy bellyful! Spit, fire! spout, rain!
Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my daughters:
I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness; 15
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 man.
But yet I call you servile ministers, 20
That have with two pernicious daughters join’d
Your high-engender’d battles ‘gainst a head
So old and white as this. O! O! ’tis foul.
Fool. He that has a house to put his head in has a good head-piece.
The cod-piece that will house
Before the head has any,
The head and he shall louse;
So beggars marry many.
The man that makes his toe
What he his heart should make,
Shall of a corn cry woe,
And turn his sleep to wake.
For there was never yet fair woman but she made mouths in a glass. 25
Enter KENT.
Lear. No, I will be the pattern of all patience;
I will say nothing.
Kent. Who’s there?
Fool. Marry, here’s grace and a cod-piece; that’s a wise man and a fool. 30
Kent. Alas! sir, are you here? things that love night
Love not such nights as these; the wrathful skies
Gallow the very wanderers of the dark,
And make them keep their caves. Since I was man
Such sheets of fire, such bursts of horrid thunder, 35
Such groans of roaring wind and rain, I never
Remember to have heard; man’s nature cannot carry
The affliction nor the fear.
Lear. Let the great gods,
That keep this dreadful pother o’er our heads, 40
Find out their enemies now. Tremble, thou wretch,
That hast within thee undivulged crimes,
Unwhipp’d of justice; hide thee, thou bloody hand;
Thou perjur’d, and thou simular of virtue
That art incestuous; caitiff, to pieces shake, 45
That under covert and convenient seeming
Hast practis’d on man’s life; close pent-up guilts,
Rive your concealing continents, and cry
These dreadful summoners grace. I am a man
More sinn’d against than sinning. 50
Kent. Alack! bare-headed!
Gracious my lord, hard by here is a hovel;
Some friendship will it lend you ‘gainst the tempest;
Repose you there while I to this hard house, —
More harder than the stone whereof ’tis rais’d, — 55
Which even but now, demanding after you,
Denied me to come in, return and force
Their scanted courtesy.
Lear. My wits begin to turn.
Come on, my boy. How dost, my boy? Art cold? 60
I am cold myself. Where is this straw, my fellow?
The art of our necessities is strange,
That can make vile things precious. Come, your hovel.
Poor fool and knave, I have one part in my heart
That’s sorry yet for thee. 65
Fool.
He that has a little tiny wit,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
Must make content with his fortunes fit,
Though the rain it raineth every day.
Lear. True, my good boy. Come, bring us to this hovel. [Exeunt LEAR and KENT.
Fool. This is a brave night to cool a courtezan.
I’ll speak a prophecy ere I go:
When priests are more in word than matter; 70
When brewers mar their malt with water;
When nobles are their tailors’ tutors;
No heretics burn’d, but wenches’ suitors;
When every case in law is right;
No squire in debt, nor no poor knight; 75
When slanders do not live in tongues;
Nor cutpurses come not to throngs;
When usurers tell their gold i’ the field;
And bawds and whores do churches build;
Then shall the realm of Albion 80
Come to great confusion:
Then comes the time, who lives to see ‘t,
That going shall be us’d with feet.
This prophecy Merlin shall make; for I live before his time. [Exit.
Act III. Scene III.
A Room in GLOUCESTER’S Castle.
Enter GLOUCESTER and EDMUND.
Glo. Alack, alack! Edmund, I like not this unnatural dealing. When I desired their leave that I might pity him, they took from me the use of mine own house; charged me, on pain of their perpetual displeasure, neither to speak of him, entreat for him, nor any way sustain him.
Edm. Most savage, and unnatural!
Glo. Go to; say you nothing. There is division between the dukes, and a worse matter than that. I have received a letter this night; ’tis dangerous to be spoken; I have locked the letter in my closet. These injuries the king now bears will be revenged home; there’s part of a power already footed; we must incline to the king. I will seek him and privily relieve him; go you and maintain talk with the duke, that my charity be not of him perceived. If he ask for me, I am ill and gone to bed. If I die for it, as no less is threatened me, the king, my old master, must be relieved. There is some strange thing toward, Edmund; pray you, be careful. [Exit. 5
Edm. This courtesy, forbid thee, shall the duke
Instantly know; and of that letter too:
This seems a fair deserving, and must draw me
That which my father loses; no less than all:
The younger rises when the old doth fall. [Exit. 10
Act III. Scene IV.
The Heath. Before a Hovel.
Enter LEAR, KENT, and Fool.
Kent. Here is the place, my lord; good my lord, enter:
The tyranny of the open night’s too rough
For nature to endure. [Storm still. 5
Lear. Let me alone.
Kent. Good my lord, enter here.
Lear. Wilt break my heart?
Kent. I’d rather break mine own. Good my lord, enter.
Lear. Thou think’st ’tis much that this contentious storm 10
Invades us to the skin: so ’tis to thee;
But where the greater malady is fix’d,
The lesser is scarce felt. Thou’dst shun a bear;
But if thy flight lay toward the roaring sea,
Thou’dst meet the bear i’ t
he mouth. When the mind’s free 15
The body’s delicate; the tempest in my mind
Doth from my senses take all feeling else
Save what beats there. Filial ingratitude!
Is it not as this mouth should tear this hand
For lifting food to ‘t? But I will punish home: 20
No, I will weep no more. In such a night
To shut me out! Pour on; I will endure.
In such a night as this! O Regan, Goneril!
Your old kind father, whose frank heart gave all, —
O! that way madness lies; let me shun that; 25
No more of that.
Kent. Good, my lord, enter here.
Lear. Prithee, go in thyself; seek thine own ease:
This tempest will not give me leave to ponder
On things would hurt me more. But I’ll go in. 30
[To the Fool.] In, boy; go first. You houseless poverty, —
Nay, get thee in. I’ll pray, and then I’ll sleep. [Fool goes in.
Poor naked wretches, wheresoe’er you are,
That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm,
How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides, 35
Your loop’d and window’d raggedness, defend you
From seasons such as these? O! I have ta’en
Too little care of this. Take physic, pomp;
Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel,
That thou mayst shake the superflux to them, 40
And show the heavens more just.
Edg. [Within.] Fathom and half, fathom and half! Poor Tom! [The Fool runs out from the hovel.
Fool. Come not in here, nuncle; here’s a spirit.
Help me! help me!
Kent. Give me thy hand. Who’s there? 45
Fool. A spirit, a spirit: he says his name’s poor Tom.
Kent. What art thou that dost grumble there i’ the straw?
Come forth.
Enter EDGAR disguised as a madman.
Edg. Away! the foul fiend follows me! 50
Through the sharp hawthorn blow the winds.
Hum! go to thy cold bed and warm thee.
Lear. Didst thou give all to thy two daughters?
And art thou come to this?
Edg. Who gives anything to poor Tom? whom the foul fiend hath led through fire and through flame, through ford and whirlpool, o’er bog and quagmire; that hath laid knives under his pillow, and halters in his pew; set ratsbane by his porridge; made him proud of heart, to ride on a bay trotting-horse over four-inched bridges, to course his own shadow for a traitor. Bless thy five wits! Tom’s a-cold. O! do de, do de, do de. Bless thee from whirlwinds, starblasting, and taking! Do poor Tom some charity, whom the foul fiend vexes. There could I have him now, and there, and there again, and there. [Storm still. 55
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