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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