King Lear

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O Goneril!
You are not worth the dust which the rude wind
Blows in your face. I fear your disposition:
That nature, which contemns its origin,
Cannot be border’d certain in itself;
She that herself will sliver and disbranch
From her material sap, perforce must wither
And come to deadly use.

Goneril

No more; the text is foolish.

Albany

Wisdom and goodness to the vile seem vile:
Filths savour but themselves. What have you done?
Tigers, not daughters, what have you perform’d?
A father, and a gracious aged man,
Whose reverence even the head-lugg’d bear would lick,
Most barbarous, most degenerate! have you madded.
Could my good brother suffer you to do it?
A man, a prince, by him so benefited!
If that the heavens do not their visible spirits
Send quickly down to tame these vile offences,
It will come,
Humanity must perforce prey on itself,
Like monsters of the deep.

Goneril

Milk-liver’d man!
That bear’st a cheek for blows, a head for wrongs;
Who hast not in thy brows an eye discerning
Thine honour from thy suffering; that not know’st
Fools do those villains pity who are punish’d
Ere they have done their mischief. Where’s thy drum?
France spreads his banners in our noiseless land;
With plumed helm thy slayer begins threats;
Whiles thou, a moral fool, sit’st still, and criest
“Alack, why does he so?”

Albany

See thyself, devil!
Proper deformity seems not in the fiend
So horrid as in woman.

Goneril

O vain fool!

Albany

Thou changed and self-cover’d thing, for shame,
Be-monster not thy feature. Were’t my fitness
To let these hands obey my blood,
They are apt enough to dislocate and tear
Thy flesh and bones: howe’er thou art a fiend,
A woman’s shape doth shield thee.

Goneril

Marry, your manhood now⁠—

Enter a Messenger. Albany What news? Messenger

O, my good lord, the Duke of Cornwall’s dead:
Slain by his servant, going to put out
The other eye of Gloucester.

Albany Gloucester’s eye! Messenger

A servant that he bred, thrill’d with remorse,
Opposed against the act, bending his sword
To his great master; who, thereat enraged,
Flew on him, and amongst them fell’d him dead;
But not without that harmful stroke, which since
Hath pluck’d him after.

Albany

This shows you are above,
You justicers, that these our nether crimes
So speedily can venge! But, O poor Gloucester!
Lost he his other eye?

Messenger

Both, both, my lord.
This letter, madam, craves a speedy answer;
’Tis from your sister.

Goneril

Aside. One way I like this well;
But being widow, and my Gloucester 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.

Albany Where was his son when they did take his eyes? Messenger Come with my lady hither. Albany He is not here. Messenger No, my good lord; I met him back again. Albany Knows he the wickedness? Messenger

Ay, my good lord; ’twas he inform’d against him;
And quit the house on purpose, that their punishment
Might have the freer course.

Albany

Gloucester, 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?
Gentleman	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?
Gentleman	The Marshal of France, Monsieur La Far.
Kent	Did your letters pierce the queen to any demonstration of grief?
Gentleman	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 moved her.
Gentleman	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 way: 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 beloved, If all could so become it.
Kent	Made she no verbal question?
Gentleman	‘Faith, once or twice she heaved 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 believed!” 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?
Gentleman	No.
Kent	Was this before the king return’d?
Gentleman	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.
Gentleman	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.
Gentleman	Alack, poor gentleman!
Kent	Of Albany’s and Cornwall’s powers you heard not?
Gentleman	’Tis so, they are afoot.
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 same. A tent.

Enter, with drum and colours, Cordelia, Doctor, and Soldiers.

Cordelia

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 bur-docks, 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