Complete Plays, The

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Complete Plays, The Page 102

by William Shakespeare


  Who wears no honesty. Such smiling rogues as these,

  Like rats, oft bite the holy cords a-twain

  Which are too intrinse t’ unloose; smooth every passion

  That in the natures of their lords rebel;

  Bring oil to fire, snow to their colder moods;

  Renege, affirm, and turn their halcyon beaks

  With every gale and vary of their masters,

  Knowing nought, like dogs, but following.

  A plague upon your epileptic visage!

  Smile you my speeches, as I were a fool?

  Goose, if I had you upon Sarum plain,

  I’ld drive ye cackling home to Camelot.

  Cornwall

  Why, art thou mad, old fellow?

  Gloucester

  How fell you out? say that.

  Kent

  No contraries hold more antipathy

  Than I and such a knave.

  Cornwall

  Why dost thou call him a knave? What’s his offence?

  Kent

  His countenance likes me not.

  Cornwall

  No more, perchance, does mine, nor his, nor hers.

  Kent

  Sir, ’tis my occupation to be plain:

  I have seen better faces in my time

  Than stands on any shoulder that I see

  Before me at this instant.

  Cornwall

  This is some fellow,

  Who, having been praised for bluntness, doth affect

  A saucy roughness, and constrains the garb

  Quite from his nature: he cannot flatter, he,

  An honest mind and plain, he must speak truth!

  An they will take it, so; if not, he’s plain.

  These kind of knaves I know, which in this plainness

  Harbour more craft and more corrupter ends

  Than twenty silly ducking observants

  That stretch their duties nicely.

  Kent

  Sir, in good sooth, in sincere verity,

  Under the allowance of your great aspect,

  Whose influence, like the wreath of radiant fire

  On flickering Phoebus’ front,—

  Cornwall

  What mean’st by this?

  Kent

  To go out of my dialect, which you discommend so much. I know, sir, I am no flatterer: he that beguiled you in a plain accent was a plain knave; which for my part I will not be, though I should win your displeasure to entreat me to ’t.

  Cornwall

  What was the offence you gave him?

  Oswald

  I never gave him any:

  It pleased the king his master very late

  To strike at me, upon his misconstruction;

  When he, conjunct and flattering his displeasure,

  Tripp’d me behind; being down, insulted, rail’d,

  And put upon him such a deal of man,

  That worthied him, got praises of the king

  For him attempting who was self-subdued;

  And, in the fleshment of this dread exploit,

  Drew on me here again.

  Kent

  None of these rogues and cowards

  But Ajax is their fool.

  Cornwall

  Fetch forth the stocks!

  You stubborn ancient knave, you reverend braggart,

  We’ll teach you —

  Kent

  Sir, I am too old to learn:

  Call not your stocks for me: I serve the king;

  On whose employment I was sent to you:

  You shall do small respect, show too bold malice

  Against the grace and person of my master,

  Stocking his messenger.

  Cornwall

  Fetch forth the stocks! As I have life and honour,

  There shall he sit till noon.

  Regan

  Till noon! till night, my lord; and all night too.

  Kent

  Why, madam, if I were your father’s dog,

  You should not use me so.

  Regan

  Sir, being his knave, I will.

  Cornwall

  This is a fellow of the self-same colour

  Our sister speaks of. Come, bring away the stocks!

  Stocks brought out

  Gloucester

  Let me beseech your grace not to do so:

  His fault is much, and the good king his master

  Will cheque him for ’t: your purposed low correction

  Is such as basest and contemned’st wretches

  For pilferings and most common trespasses

  Are punish’d with: the king must take it ill,

  That he’s so slightly valued in his messenger,

  Should have him thus restrain’d.

  Cornwall

  I’ll answer that.

  Regan

  My sister may receive it much more worse,

  To have her gentleman abused, assaulted,

  For following her affairs. Put in his legs.

  Kent is put in the stocks

  Come, my good lord, away.

  Exeunt all but Gloucester and Kent

  Gloucester

  I am sorry for thee, friend; ’tis the duke’s pleasure,

  Whose disposition, all the world well knows,

  Will not be rubb’d nor stopp’d: I’ll entreat for thee.

  Kent

  Pray, do not, sir: I have watched and travell’d hard;

  Some time I shall sleep out, the rest I’ll whistle.

  A good man’s fortune may grow out at heels:

  Give you good morrow!

  Gloucester

  The duke’s to blame in this; ’twill be ill taken.

  Exit

  Kent

  Good king, that must approve the common saw,

  Thou out of heaven’s benediction comest

  To the warm sun!

  Approach, thou beacon to this under globe,

  That by thy comfortable beams I may

  Peruse this letter! Nothing almost sees miracles

  But misery: I know ’tis from Cordelia,

  Who hath most fortunately been inform’d

  Of my obscured course; and shall find time

  From this enormous state, seeking to give

  Losses their remedies. All weary and o’erwatch’d,

  Take vantage, heavy eyes, not to behold

  This shameful lodging.

  Fortune, good night: smile once more: turn thy wheel!

  Sleeps

  SCENE III. A WOOD.

  Enter Edgar

  Edgar

  I heard myself proclaim’d;

  And by the happy hollow of a tree

  Escaped the hunt. No port is free; no place,

  That guard, and most unusual vigilance,

  Does not attend my taking. Whiles I may ’scape,

  I will preserve myself: and am bethought

  To take the basest and most poorest shape

  That ever penury, in contempt of man,

  Brought near to beast: my face I’ll grime with filth;

  Blanket my loins: elf all my hair in knots;

  And with presented nakedness out-face

  The winds and persecutions of the sky.

  The country gives me proof and precedent

  Of Bedlam beggars, who, with roaring voices,

  Strike in their numb’d and mortified bare arms

  Pins, wooden pricks, nails, sprigs of rosemary;

  And with this horrible object, from low farms,

  Poor pelting villages, sheep-cotes, and mills,

  Sometime with lunatic bans, sometime with prayers,

  Enforce their charity. Poor Turlygod! poor Tom!

  That’s something yet: Edgar I nothing am.

  Exit

  SCENE IV. BEFORE GLOUCESTER’S CASTLE. KENT IN THE STOCKS.

  Enter King Lear, Fool, and Gentleman

  King Lear

  ’Tis strange that they should so depart from home,
/>   And not send back my messenger.

  Gentleman

  As I learn’d,

  The night before there was no purpose in them

  Of this remove.

  Kent

  Hail to thee, noble master!

  King Lear

  Ha!

  Makest thou this shame thy pastime?

  Kent

  No, my lord.

  Fool

  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.

  King Lear

  What’s he that hath so much thy place mistook

  To set thee here?

  Kent

  It is both he and she;

  Your son and daughter.

  King Lear

  No.

  Kent

  Yes.

  King Lear

  No, I say.

  Kent

  I say, yea.

  King Lear

  No, no, they would not.

  Kent

  Yes, they have.

  King Lear

  By Jupiter, I swear, no.

  Kent

  By Juno, I swear, ay.

  King Lear

  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.

  Kent

  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.

  Fool

  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.

  King Lear

  O, how this mother swells up toward my heart!

  Hysterica passio, down, thou climbing sorrow,

  Thy element’s below! Where is this daughter?

  Kent

  With the earl, sir, here within.

  King Lear

  Follow me not;

  Stay here.

  Exit

  Gentleman

  Made you no more offence but what you speak of?

  Kent

  None.

  How chance the king comes with so small a train?

  Fool

  And thou hadst been set i’ the stocks for that question, thou hadst well deserved it.

  Kent

  Why, fool?

  Fool

  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.

  Kent

  Where learned you this, fool?

  Fool

  Not i’ the stocks, fool.

  Re-enter King Lear with Gloucester

  King Lear

  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.

  Gloucester

  My dear lord,

  You know the fiery quality of the duke;

  How unremoveable and fix’d he is

  In his own course.

  King Lear

  Vengeance! plague! death! confusion!

  Fiery? what quality? Why, Gloucester, Gloucester,

  I’ld speak with the Duke of Cornwall and his wife.

  Gloucester

  Well, my good lord, I have inform’d them so.

  King Lear

  Inform’d them! Dost thou understand me, man?

  Gloucester

  Ay, my good lord.

  King Lear

  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.

  Gloucester

  I would have all well betwixt you.

  Exit

  King Lear

  O me, my heart, my rising heart! but, down!

  Fool

  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

  King Lear

  Good morrow to you both.

  Cornwall

  Hail to your grace!

  Kent is set at liberty

  Regan

  I am glad to see your highness.

  King Lear

  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.

  To Kent

  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!

  Regan

  I pray you, sir, take patience: I have hope.

  You less know how to value her desert

  Than she to scant her duty.

  King Lear

  Say, how is that?

  Regan

  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.

  King Lear

  My curses on her!

  Regan

  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.

  King Lear

  Ask her forgiveness?

  Do you but mark how this becomes the house:

  ‘Dear daughter, I confess that I am old;

  Kneeling

  Age is unnecessary: on my knees I beg

  That you’ll vouchsafe me raiment, bed, and food.’

  Regan

  Good sir, no more; these are unsightly tricks:

  Return you to my sister.

  King Lear

  [Rising] 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!

  Cornwall

  Fie, sir, fie!

  King 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!

  Regan

  O the blest gods! so will you wish on me,

  When the rash mood is on.

  King 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.

  Regan

 

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