Complete Plays, The

by William Shakespeare

  Good sir, to the purpose.

  King Lear

  Who put my man i’ the stocks?

  Tucket within

  Cornwall

  What trumpet’s that?

  Regan

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

  That she would soon be here.

  Enter Oswald

  Is your lady come?

  King Lear

  This is a slave, whose easy-borrow’d pride

  Dwells in the fickle grace of her he follows.

  Out, varlet, from my sight!

  Cornwall

  What means your grace?

  King 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 ashamed to look upon this beard?

  O Regan, wilt thou take her by the hand?

  Goneril

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

  All’s not offence that indiscretion finds

  And dotage terms so.

  King Lear

  O sides, you are too tough;

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

  Cornwall

  I set him there, sir: but his own disorders

  Deserved much less advancement.

  King Lear

  You! did you?

  Regan

  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.

  King 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 at Oswald

  Goneril

  At your choice, sir.

  King Lear

  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.

  Regan

  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.

  King Lear

  Is this well spoken?

  Regan

  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.

  Goneril

  Why might not you, my lord, receive attendance

  From those that she calls servants or from mine?

  Regan

  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.

  King Lear

  I gave you all —

  Regan

  And in good time you gave it.

  King 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?

  Regan

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

  King 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.

  Goneril

  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?

  Regan

  What need one?

  King 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’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

  Cornwall

  Let us withdraw; ’twill be a storm.

  Regan

  This house is little: the old man and his people

  Cannot be well bestow’d.

  Goneril

  ’Tis his own blame; hath put himself from rest,

  And must needs taste his folly.

  Regan

  For his particular, I’ll receive him gladly,

  But not one follower.

  Goneril

  So am I purposed.

  Where is my lord of Gloucester?

  Cornwall

  Follow’d the old man forth: he is return’d.

  Re-enter Gloucester

  Gloucester

  The king is in high rage.

  Cornwall

  Whither is he going?

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

  Cornwall

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

  Goneril

  My lord, entreat him by no means to stay.

  Gloucester

  Alack, the night comes on, and the bleak winds

  Do sorely ruffle; for many miles a bout

  There’s scarce a bush.

  Regan

  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.

  Cornwall

  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.

  Storm still. Enter Kent and a Gentleman, meeting

  Kent

  Who’s there, besides foul weather?

  Gentleman

  One minded like the weather, most unquietly.

  Kent

  I know you. Where’s the king?

  Gentleman

  Contending with the fretful element:

  Bids the winds blow the earth into the sea,

  Or swell the curled water ’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 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

  Keep their fur dry, unbonneted he runs,

  And bids what will take all.

  Kent

  But who is with him?

  Gentleman

  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

  Throned 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.

  Gentleman

  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.

  Gentleman

  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 STILL.

  Enter King Lear and Fool

  King 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,

  Smite flat the thick rotundity o’ the world!

  Crack nature’s moulds, an 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 neither wise man nor fool.

  King 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 despised old man:

  But yet I call you servile ministers,

  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’s 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.

  King Lear

  No, I will be the pattern of all patience;

  I will say nothing.

  Enter Kent

  Kent

  Who’s there?

  Fool

  Marry, here’s grace and a cod-piece; that’s a wise man and a fool.

  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,

  Such groans of roaring wind and rain, I never

  Remember to have heard: man’s nature cannot carry

  The affliction nor the fear.

  King Lear

  Let the great gods,

  That keep this dreadful pother o’er our heads,

  Find out their enemies now. Tremble, thou wretch,

  That hast within thee undivulged crimes,

  Unwhipp’d of justice: hide thee, thou bloody hand;

  Thou perjured, and thou simular man of virtue

  That art incestuous: caitiff, to pieces shake,

  That under covert and convenient seeming

  Hast practised 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.

  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 stones whereof ’tis raised;

  Which even but now, demanding after you,

  Denied me to come in — return, and force

  Their scanted courtesy.

  King Lear

  My wits begin to turn.

  Come on, my boy: how dost, my boy? art cold?

  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.

  Fool

  [Singing]

  He that has and a little tiny wit —

  With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,—

  Must make content with his fortunes fit,

  For the rain it raineth every day.

  King Lear

  True, my good boy. Come, bring us to this hovel.

  Exeunt King 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;

  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;

  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

  Come to great confusion:

  Then comes the time, who lives to see’t,

  That going shall be used with feet.

  This prophecy Merlin shall make; for I live before his time.

  Exit

  SCENE III. GLOUCESTER’S CASTLE.

  Enter Gloucester and Edmund

  Gloucester

  Alack, alack, Edmund, I like not this unnatural dealing. When I desire 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.

  Edmund

  Most savage and unnatural!

  Gloucester

  Go to; say you nothing. There’s a division betwixt 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. Though 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.