Edmund. (R. C.)

How now? What's the matter? Part!

Corn. (C.)
Keep peace, upon your lives;
He dies, that strikes again. What is the matter?

Regan. (R. of him)

The messengers from our sister and the king.

Corn.

What is your difference? Speak.

Oswald. (L.)

I am scarce in breath, my lord.

Kent. (R.)

No marvel, you have so bestirr'd your valor. You cowardly rascal, nature disclaims in thee; a tailor made thee.

Corn.

Thou art a strange fellow: a tailor make a man?

Kent.

Ay, a tailor, sir; a stone-cutter, or a painter, could not have made him so ill, though they had been but two hours at the trade.

Corn.

Speak yet, how grew your quarrel?

Oswald.
This ancient ruffian, sir, whose life I have spar'd
At suit of his grey beard,—

Kent.

Thou whoreson zed! thou unnecessary letter!— My lord, if you will give me leave, I will tread this unbolted villain into mortar, and daub the wall with him.— Spare my grey beard, you wagtail?

Corn.
Peace, sirrah!
You knave, know now you no reverence?

Kent.
Yes, sir; but anger has a privilege.

Corn.
Why art thou angry?

Kent.
That such a slave as this should wear a sword,
Who wears no honesty. Such smiling rogues as these,
Renege, affirm, and turn their halcyon beaks
With every gale and vary of their masters,
As 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'd drive ye cackling home to Camelot.

Corn.
What! art thou mad, old fellow?

Gloster.
How fell you out? say that.

Kent.
No contraries hold more antipathy.
Than I, and such a knave.

Corn.
Why dost thou call him knave? What's his offence?

Kent.
His countenance likes me not.

Corn.
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.

Regan.
This is some fellow,
Who, having been praised for bluntness, doth affect
A saucy roughness. *He cannot flatter, he!—
*An honest mind and plain,—he must
*An' they will take it, so; if not, he's plain. Speak truth:
*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.

Corn.
What was the offence you gave him?

Oswald.
I never gave him any.
It pleas'd 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-subdu'd;
And, in the fleshment of this dread exploit,
Drew on me here.

Corn.
Fetch forth the stocks, ho!
You stubborn ancient knave, you reverend braggart;
We'll teach you,— Two Servants exeunt, R. and fetch stocks.

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.

Corn.
Fetch forth the stocks: (two Servants secure Kent and put him in the stocks, R.)
As I've 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 this knave, I will.

Gloster.
Let me beseech your grace not to do so:
His fault is much, and the good king his master
Will check him for 't: the king must take it ill,
That he,—so slightly valued in his messenger,—
Should have him thus restrain'd.

Corn.
I'll answer that.

Regan.
My sister may receive it much more worse
To have her gentleman abus'd, assaulted,
For following her affairs. Come, my good lord; away. Exeunt Cornwall, Regan, Edmund, and Servants, C.

Gloster.
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 watch'd, and travell'd hard;
Some time I shall sleep out, the rest I'll whistle.

Gloster.
The duke's to blame in this; 'twill be ill taken. Exit, C.

Kent.
Good king, that must approve the common saw!
Thou out of heaven's benediction com'st
To the warm sun!
Approach, thou beacon to this under globe,
That by thy comfortable beams I may
Peruse this letter! 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'er-watch'd,
Take vantage, heavy eyes, not to behold
This shameful lodging. Fortune, good night;
Smile once more; turn thy wheel! (he sleeps and is closed in by)

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