Kent.

I thought the King had more affected the Duke of Albany than Cornwall.

Glo.

It did always seem so to us: but now, in the division of the kingdom, it appears not which of the dukes he values most; for qualities are so weigh'd, that curiosity in neither, can make choice of either's moiety.

Kent.

Is not this your son, my lord?

Glo.

His breeding, sir, hath been at my charge. I have so often blush'd to acknowledge him, that now I am braz'd to't.

Kent.

I cannot conceive you.

Glo.

Sir, this young fellow's mother could; who had, indeed, sir, a son for her cradle, ere she had a husband for her bed. Do you smell a fault?

Kent.

I cannot wish the fault undone, the issue of it being so proper.

Glo.

But I have a son, sir, by order of law, some year older than this, who yet is no dearer, in my account; though this knave came somewhat saucily into the world, before he was sent for. Do you know this nobleman, Edmund?

Ed.

No, my lord.‡ ^note

Glo.

My lord of Kent: remember him hereafter, as my honourable friend.

Ed.

My services to your lordship.

Kent.

I must love you, and sue to know you better.

Ed.

Sir, I shall study your deservings.

Glo.
He hath been out nine years, and away he shall again.
My lord, you wait the King, who comes, resolv'd
To quit the toils of empire, and divide
His realms amongst his daughters—
Heav'n succeed it!
But much I fear the change.

Kent.
I grieve to see him
With such wild starts of passion hourly seiz'd,
As renders majesty beneath itself.

Glo.
Alas, 'tis the infirmity of age:
Yet has his temper ever been unfix'd,
Chol'rick, and sudden—[Flourish.] Hark, they approach. [Exeunt. Enter Cordelia and Edgar.† ^note

Edg.
Cordelia, royal fair, turn yet once more;
And ere successful Burgundy receive
The treasure of thy beauties from the King;
Ere happy Burgundy for ever fold thee,
Cast back one pitying look on wretched Edgar.

Cor.
Alas! what would the wretched Edgar with
The more unfortunate Cordelia?
Who, in obedience to a father's will,
Flies from her Edgar's arms to Burgundy's. [Exeunt. Scene SCENE the Palace. Flourish. King Lear discovered on a Throne. Cornwall, Albany, Burgundy, Kent, Goneril, Regan, Cordelia, and Attendants.

Lear.
Attend the lords of Albany and Cornwall,
With princely Burgundy?

All.
We do, my liege.

Lear.
Give me the map here. Know, we have divided,
In three, our kingdom; and 'tis our fast intent,
To shake all cares and business from our age;
Conferring them on younger strengths, while we,
Unburthen'd, crawl tow'rd death.
You, Burgundy, Albany, and Cornwall,
Long in our court have made your am'rous sojourn,
And here are to be answered. Tell me, daughters,
Which of you shall we say doth love us most?
That we our largest bounty may extend,
Where nature doth with merit challenge. Goneril,
Our eldest born, speak first.

Gon.
I love you, sir,
Dearer than eye-sight, space and liberty;
Beyond what can be valu'd, rich or rare;
No less than life, with grace, health, beauty, honour;
As much as child e'er lov'd, or father found.
A love that makes breath poor, and speech unable;
Beyond all manner of so much, I love you.

Cor.
What shall Cordelia do? Love and be silent. [Aside.

Lear.
Of all these bounds, ev'n from this line to this,
With shadowy forests, and with champains rich'd,
With plenteous rivers, and wide-skirted meads,
We make thee lady. To thine and Albany's issue

Be this perpetual.—What says our second daughter?
Our dearest Regan, wife of Cornwall, speak.

Reg.
I'm made of that self-metal as my sister,
And prize me at her worth. In my true heart,
I find she names my very deed of love;
Only she comes too short: that I profess
Myself an enemy to all other joys,
Which the most precious square of sense possesses;
And find I am alone felicitate,
In your dear highness' love.

Lear.
To thee and thine, hereditary ever,
Remain this ample third of our fair kingdom;
No less in space, validity, and pleasure,
Than that conferr'd on Goneril.

Cor.
Then, poor Cordelia!
And yet not so, since I am sure my love's
More pond'rous than my tongue. [Aside.

Lear.
Now, our joy,
Although our last, not least in our dear love,
Cordelia, speak, what canst thou say, to draw
A third more opulent than your sister? Speak.

Cor.
Nothing, my lord.

Lear.
Nothing?

Cor.
Nothing.

Lear.
Nothing can come of nothing—speak again.

Cor.
Unhappy that I am, I cannot heave
My heart into my mouth: I love your majesty,
According to my bond, no more nor less.† ^note

Lear.
How, how, Cordelia? Mend your speech a little,
Lest you may mar your fortunes.

Cor.
Good my lord,
You gave me being; bred me; lov'd me; I
Return those duties back, as are right fit;
Obey you, love you, and most honour you.
Why have my sisters husbands, if they say,

They love you all? Haply, when I shall wed,
That lord, whose hand must take my plight, shall carry
Half my love with him, half my care and duty.
Sure I shall never marry, like my sisters,
To love my father all.

Lear.
But goes thy heart with this?

Cor.
Ay, my good lord.

Lear.
So young and so untender?

Cor.
So young, my lord, and true.

Lear.
Let it be so: thy truth then be thy dower:
For by the sacred radiance of the sun,
The mysteries of Hecate, and the night;
By all the operations of the orbs,
From whom we do exist, and cease to be;
Here I disclaim all my paternal care,
Propinquity, and property of blood;
And as a stranger to my heart and me,
Hold thee, from this, for ever.* ^note

Kent.
Good, my liege—

Lear.
Peace, Kent!
Come not between the dragon and his wrath.
I lov'd her most, and thought to set my rest
On her kind nurs'ry. Hence, avoid my sight! [To Cordelia.
So be my grave my peace, as here I give
Her father's heart from her. Cornwall and Albany,
With my two daughters' dow'rs digest the third.
Let pride, which she calls plainness, marry her.
I do invest you jointly with my power,
Pre-eminence, and all the large effects
That troop with majesty. Our self, by monthly course,
With reservation of an hundred knights,
By you to be sustained, shall our abode

Make with you by due turns: only retain
The name, and all th' addition to a king:
The sway, revenue, execution,
Beloved sons, be yours; which to confirm,
This cor'net part between you.* ^note [Giving the crown.

Kent.
Royal Lear,
Whom I have ever honour'd as my king,
Lov'd as my father, as my master follow'd,
And, as my patron, thought on in my pray'rs—

Lear.
The bow is bent and drawn, make from the shaft.

Kent.
Let it fall, rather, though the fork invade
The region of my heart. Be Kent unmannerly,
When Lear is mad. Thy youngest daughter—

Lear.
Kent, on thy life, no more.

Kent.
My life I never held, but as a pawn
To wage against thy foes; nor fear to lose it,
Thy safety being the motive.

Lear.
Out of my sight!

Kent.
See better, Lear.

Lear.
Now, by Apollo—

Kent.
Now by Apollo, king,
Thou swear'st thy gods in vain.

Lear.
O vassal! miscreant! [Laying his hand on his sword.

Alb. Corn.
Dear sir, forbear.

Kent.
Kill thy physician, and thy fee bestow
Upon the foul disease. Revoke thy doom,
Or, whilst I can vent clamour from my throat,
I'll tell thee thou dost evil.† ^note

Lear.
Hear me, recreant
Since thou hast sought to make us break our vow,

And come betwixt our sentence and our power;
(Which nor our nature, nor our place, can bear;)
Five days we do allot thee for provision,
And, on the sixth, to turn thy hated back
Upon our kingdom; if, the tenth day following,
Thy banish'd trunk be found in our dominions,
The moment is thy death: away! by Jupiter,
This shall not be revok'd.

Kent.
Fare thee well, king, since thou art resolv'd;
The gods to their dear shelter take thee, maid,
That justly think'st, and hast most rightly said
Thus to new climates my old truth I bear,
Freedom lives hence, and banishment is here. [Exit Kent.

Lear.
Right noble Burgundy,
When she was dear to us, we held her so;
But now her price is fall'n. Sir, there she stands:
Will you with those infirmities she owes,
Unfriended, new-adopted to our hate,
Dowr'd with our curse, and stranger'd with our oath,
Take her, or leave her?

Bur.
Pardon, royal sir;* ^note
Election makes not up on such conditions.

Lear.
Then leave her, sir; for by the power that made me,
I tell you all her wealth.—Away! [Flourish. Exeunt. Scene SCENE changes to a Castle belonging to the Earl of Gloster. Enter Edmund, with a Letter.† ^note

Edm.
Thou, Nature, art my goddess; to thy law

My services are bound. Wherefore should I
Stand in the plague of custom, and permit
The curtesie of nations to deprive me,
For that I am some twelve or fourteen moon-shines
Lag of a brother? Why bastard? wherefore base?
When my dimensions are as well compact,
My mind as gen'rous, and my shape as true,
As honest madam's issue? Why brand they us
With base? with baseness? bastardy? base, base?
Who, in the lusty stealth of nature, take
More composition and fierce quality,
Than doth, within a dull, stale, tired bed,
Go to creating a whole tribe of fops,
Got 'tween asleep and wake? Well then,
Legitimate Edgar, I must have your land.
Our father's love is to the bastard Edmund,
As to th' legitimate. Fine word—legitimate—
Well, my legitimate, if this letter speed,
And my invention thrive, Edmund the base,
Shall be th' legitimate—I grow, I prosper;
Now, Gods, stand up for bastards! To him, enter Gloster.

Glo.
Kent banish'd thus! and the king gone to-night!
Edmund, how now? what news?
What paper were you reading?

Edm.

Nothing, my lord.

Glo.

No! what needed then that terrible dispatch of it into your pocket? the quality of nothing hath not such need to hide itself. Let's see; come, if it be nothing, I shall not need spectacles.

Edm.

I beseech you, sir, pardon me; it is a letter from my brother, that I have not all o'er-read; and for so much as I have perus'd, I find it not fit for your o'erlooking.

Glo.

Let's see, let's see.

Edm.

I hope, for my brother's justification, he wrote this but as an essay, or taste, of my virtue.

Glo. reads.]

This policy and reverence of ages makes the world bitter to the best of our times; keeps our fortunes from

us, 'till our oldness cannot relish them. I begin to find an idle and fond bondage in the oppression of aged tyranny; which sways, not as it hath power, but as it is suffered. Come to me, that of this I may speak more. If our father would sleep till I wak'd him, you should enjoy half his revenue, for ever, and live the beloved of your brother Edgar.— Hum—Conspiracy!—sleep, till I wake him—you should enjoy half his revenue—my son Edgar! had he a hand to write this! a heart and brain to breed it in! When came this to you? who brought it?

Edm.

It was not brought me, my lord; there's the cunning of it. I found it thrown in at the casement of my closet.

Glo.

You know the character to be your brother's?

Edm.

If the matter were good, my lord, I durst swear, it were his; but in respect of that, I would fain think it were not.

Glo.

It is his.

Edm.

It is his hand, my lord; I hope his heart is not in the contents.* ^note

Glo.

Has he never before sounded you, in this business?

Edm.

Never, my lord. But I have heard him oft maintain it to be fit, that sons at perfect age, and fathers declining, the father should be as a ward to the son, and the son manage his revenue.

Glo.

O villain, villain! his very opinion in the letter. Abhorred villain! unnatural, detested, brutish villain! worse than brutish! Go, sirrah, seek him; I'll apprehend him. Abominable villain! where is he?

Edm.

I do not well know, my lord; if it shall please you to suspend your indignation against my brother, till you can derive from him better testimony of his intent, you should run a certain course; where, if you violently proceed against him, mistaking his purpose, it would make a great gap in your own honour, and shake in

pieces the heart of his obedience. I dare pawn down my life for him, that he hath writ this to feel my affection to your honour, and to no other pretence of danger.

Glo.

Think you so?

Edm.

If your honour judge it meet, I will place you where you shall hear us confer of this, and by an auricular assurance have your satisfaction: and, that without any further delay than this very evening.

Glo.

He cannot be such a monster.

Edm.

Nor is not, sure.

Glo.

To his father, that so tenderly and entirely loves him—Heav'n and earth! Edmund, seek him out; wind me into him, I pray you; frame the business after your own wisdom. I would unstate myself, to be in a due resolution.

Edm.

I will seek him, sir, presently: convey the business as I shall find means, and acquaint you withal.

Glo.

These late eclipses in the sun and moon, portend no good to us; tho' the wisdom of nature can reason it thus and thus, yet nature finds itself scourg'd by the frequent effects. Love cools, friendship falls off, brothers divide. In cities, mutinies; in countries, discord; in palaces, treason; and the bond crack'd 'twixt son and father. Find out this villain, Edmund; it shall lose thee nothing. Do it carefully— And the noble and true-hearted Kent banish'd! his offence, honesty. 'Tis strange!

Edm.

This is the excellent foppery of the world, that, when we are sick in fortune, (often the surfeits of our own behaviour) we make guilty of our disasters, the sun, the moon, and stars; as if we were villains on necessity; fools, by heavenly compulsion; knaves, thieves, and treacherous, by spherical predominance; drunkards, lyars, and adulterers, by an inforc'd obedience

of planetary influence; and all that we are evil in, by a divine thrusting on. An admirable evasion of whore-master man, to lay his goatish disposition on the charge of a star! I should have been what I am, had the maidenliest star in the firmament twinkled on my basterdizing.* ^note

Pat!—he comes, like the catastrophe of the old comedy; my cue is villanous melancholy, with a sigh like Tom o' Bedlam—O, these eclipses portend these divisions!

Edg.

How now, brother Edmund, what serious contemplation are you in?

Edm.

I am thinking, brother, of a prediction I read, this other day, what should follow these eclipses.

Edg.

Do you busy yourself with that?

Edm.

I promise you, the effects he writes of, succeed unhappily. When saw you my father, last?

Edg.

The night gone by.

Edm.

Spake you with him?

Edg.

Ay, two hours together.

Edm.

Parted you in good terms? Found you no displeasure in him, by word or countenance?

Edg.

None at all.

Edm.

Bethink yourself, wherein you have offended him; and, at my intreaty, forbear his presence, until some little time hath qualified the heat of his displeasure; which at this instant so rageth in him, that with the mischief of your person it would scarcely allay.

Edg.

Some villain hath done me wrong.

Edm.

That's my fear; I pray you, have a continent forbearance, 'till the speed of his rage goes flower: and, as I say, retire with me to my lodging, from whence I will fitly bring you to hear my lord speak. Pray you, go, there's my key: If you do stir abroad, go arm'd.

Edg.

Arm'd, brother!

Edm.

Brother, I advise you to the best; I am no honest man, if there be good meaning toward you. I have told you what I have seen and heard, but faintly; nothing like the image and horror of it. Pray you, away.

Edg.
Shall I hear from you, anon?

Edm.
I do serve you in this business. [Exit.
A credulous father, and a brother noble,
Whose nature is so far from doing harms,
That he suspects none; on whose foolish honesty
My practices ride easy. I see the business.
Let me, if not by birth, have lands by wit;
All with me's meet, that I can fashion fit. [Exit. Scene SCENE changes to an open place before the Palace. Enter Kent, disguis'd.

Kent.
If but as well I other accents borrow,* ^note
And can my speech disuse, my good intent
May carry thro' it self to that full issue,
For which I raz'd my likeness. Now, banish'd Kent,
If thou can'st serve where thou dost stand condemn'd,
So may it come, thy master, whom thou lov'st,
Shall find thee full of labours. Enter Lear, Knights and Attendants.

Lear.
Let me not stay a jot for dinner. Go, get it ready.
How now, what art thou? [To Kent.

Kent.

A man, sir.

Lear.

What dost thou profess? What would'st thou with us?

Kent.

I do profess to be no less than I seem; to serve him truly, that will put me in trust; to love him that is honest; to converse with him that is wise, and says little; to fear judgment; to fight when I cannot chuse, and to eat no fish.

Lear.

What art thou?

Kent.

A very honest-hearted fellow, and as poor as the king.

Lear.

If thou beest as poor for a subject, as he is for a king, thou art poor enough. What would'st thou?

Kent.

Service.

Lear.

Whom would'st thou serve?

Kent.

You.

Lear.

Dost thou know me, fellow?

Kent.

No, sir; but you have that in your countenance, which I would fain call matter.

Lear.

What's that?

Kent.

Authority.

Lear.

What services canst thou do?

Kent.

I can keep honest counsels, ride, run, marr a curious tale in telling it, and deliver a plain message bluntly: that which ordinary men are fit for, I am qualify'd in; and the best of me is diligence.

Lear.

How old art thou?

Kent.

Not so young, sir, to love a woman for singing; nor so old, to doat on her for any thing. I have years on my back forty-eight.

Lear.
Follow me, thou shalt serve me. Enter Steward.
You, you, sirrah, where's my daughter?

Stew.
So please you— [Ex. Steward.

Lear.
What says the fellow there? call the clotpole back. [Ex. Knight and Kent, re-enter Knight immediately.

Knight.

He says, my lord, your daughter is not well.

Lear.

Why came not the slave back to me, when I call'd him?

Knight.

Sir, he answer'd me in the roundest manner, he would not.

Lear.

He would not? Go you, and tell my daughter I would speak with her.

O, you sir; come you hither, sir; who am I, sir?

Stew.

My lady's father.

Lear.

My lady's father? my lord's knave!—you whorson dog, you slave, you cur.

Stew.

I am none of these, my lord; I beseech your pardon.

Lear.

Do you bandy looks with me, you rascal?* ^note

Stew.

I'll not be struck, my lord.

Kent.

Nor tript neither, you base foot-ball player.

Lear.

I thank thee, fellow. Thou serv'st me, and I'll love thee.

Kent.

Come, sir, arise, away; I'll teach you differences.

Gon.

By day and night! this is insufferable—I will not bear it!

Lear.

How now, daughter, what makes that frontlet on? you are too much, of late, i'th' frown.

Gon.
Sir, this licentious insolence of your servants
And other of your insolent retinue,
Do hourly carp and quarrel, breaking forth.
In rank and not to be endured riots.
I thought, by making this well known unto you,
T'have found a safe redress; but now grow fearful,
By what yourself too late have spoke and done,
That you protect this course, and put it on
By your allowance; if you should, the fault
Would not 'scape censure, nor the redresses sleep;

Which, in the tender of a wholesome weal,
Might, in their working, do you that offence,
(Which else were shame) that then necessity
Will call discreet proceeding.

Lear.
Are you our daughter?

Gon.
I would you would make use of your good wisdom,
Whereof I know you are fraught, and put away
These dispositions, which of late transport you
From what you rightly are.

Lear.
Does any here know me? This is not Lear!
Does Lear walk thus? speak thus? where are his eyes?
Either his notion weakens, his discernings
Are lethargied—Ha! waking—'tis not so!
Who is it that can tell me who I am?
Your name, fair gentlewoman?

Gon.
This admiration, sir, is much o'th' savour
Of other your new pranks. I do beseech you,
To understand my purposes aright.
You, as you're old and rev'rend, should be wise.
Here do you keep an hundred knights and squires,
Men so disorder'd, so debauch'd and bold,
That this our court, infected with their manners,
Shews like a riotous inn; luxury and lust
Make it more like a tavern, or a brothel,
Than a grac'd palace. Shame itself doth speak
For instant remedy. Be then desir'd
By her, that else will take the thing she begs,
Of fifty to disquantity your train;
And the remainders that shall still depend,
To be such men as may besort your age,
And know themselves and you.

Lear.
Darkness and devils!
Saddle my horses; call my train together.—
Degen'rate bastard!* ^note I'll not trouble thee;
Yet have I left a daughter.

Gon.
You strike my people; and your disorder'd rabble

Make servants of their betters.

Lear.
Detested kite! thou liest.
My train are men of choice and rarest parts,
That all particulars of duty know.
O most small fault!
How ugly didst thou in Cordelia shew!
Which, like an engine, wrench'd my frame of nature
From the fix'd place; drew from my heart all love,
And added to the gall. O Lear, Lear, Lear!
Beat at this gate that let thy folly in, [Striking his head.
And thy dear judgment out.—Go, go, my people. Enter Albany.
O, sir! are you come? Is it your will?
Speak, sir—Prepare my horses. [Exit one of the Attendants.

Alb.
What, sir?

Lear.
'Sdeath, fifty of my followers, at a clap!

Alb.
What's the matter, madam?

Lear.
I'll tell thee—Life and death! I am ashamed
That thou hast power to shake my manhood thus;
That these hot tears, that break from me, perforce,
Should make thee worth 'em.

Alb.
Now, gods that we adore, whereof comes this?

Gon.
Never afflict yourself to know of it;
But let his desposition have that scope,
That dotage gives it.

Lear.
Blasts and fogs upon thee!
Th'untented woundings of a father's curse,
Pierce every sense about thee! Old fond eyes,
Beweep this cause again, I'll pluck ye out,
And cast you, with the waters that you lose,
To temper clay. No, Gorgon! thou shalt find
That I'll resume the shape which thou dost think
I have cast off, for ever.

Alb.
My lord, I'm guiltless, as I'm ignorant
Of what hath mov'd you.

Lear.
It may be so, my lord.* ^note
Hear, Nature! hear, dear goddess, hear a father!
If thou didst intend to make this creature fruitful,
Suspend thy purpose.
Into her womb convey sterility!
Dry up in her the organs of encrease,
That from her derogate body never spring
A babe to honour her! If she must teem,
Create her child of spleen, that it may live,
And be a thwart, disnatur'd torment to her!
Let it slamp wrinkles in her brow of youth;
With candent tears fret channels in her cheeks;
Turn all her mother's pains and benefits,
To laughter and contempt;
That she may curse her crime, too late; and feel,
How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is,
To have a thankless child!—Away, away. [Exeunt.† ^note End of the First Act.

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