Gon.
Welcome, my lord: I marvel our mild husband^{1 note}
Not met us on the way. Now, where's your master?

Stew.
Madam, within; but never man so chang'd.
I told him the army of France was landed;
He smil'd at it. I told him you were coming;
His answer was, The worse. Of Gloster's treachery,
And of the loyal service of his son,
When I inform'd him, then he call'd me sot;
And told me, I had turn'd the wrong side out:—
What most he should dislike seems pleasant to him.

Gon.
It is the cowish terror of his spirit,
That dares not undertake: he'll not feel wrongs,
Which tie him to an answer.
Back, Edmund, to my brother;
Hasten his musters, and conduct his powers:
I must change arms at home, and give the distaff
Into my husband's hands. This trusty servant
Shall pass between us. Wear this; spare speech; [Giving a favour
Conceive, and fare thee well.

Edm.
Yours in the ranks of death.

Gon.
My most dear Edmund! [Exit Edmund.
O, the difference of man and man! To thee
A woman's services are due; my fool
Usurps my hand.

Stew.
Madam, here comes my lord. [Exit Steward.

Enter Albany.

Alb.
O, Goneril!
You are not worth the dust which the rude wind
Blows in your face. What have you done?
Tigers, not daughters, what have you perform'd?
A father, and a gracious aged man,
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,
'Twill come,
Humanity must perforce prey on itself,
Like monsters of the deep.^{2 note}

Gon.
Milk-liver'd man!
That bear'st a cheek for blows, a head for wrongs;
Where's thy drum?
France spreads his banners in our noiseless land;
Whilst thou, a moral fool, sit'st still, and cry'st,
Alack! why does he so?

Alb.
See thyself, devil!
Proper deformity^{3 note} seems not in the fiend
So horrid, as in woman. Enter Curan.
What news?

Cur.
O, my good lord, the Duke of Cornwall's dead;
Slain by his servant, going to put out
The eyes of Gloster.

Alb.
Gloster's eyes!

Cur.
A servant that he bred, thrill'd with remorse,
Oppos'd against the act, bending his sword
To his great master; who, thereat enrag'd,
Flew on him, and amongst them fell'd him dead:

But not without that harmful stroke, which since
Hath pluck'd him after.

Alb.
O, poor Gloster! O cruel! cruel!

Cur.
My lord of Gloster held confederacy with the traitors
Late footed in the kingdom, and had conveyed the king,
With five or six-and-thirty of his knights,
In safety towards Dover, where they boast
To have well armed friends.
This letter, Madam, craves a speedy answer;
'Tis from your sister.

Gon. (aside.)
One way I like this well;^{4 note}
But being widow, and my Edmund with her,
May all the building in my fancy pluck
Upon my hateful life:—I'll read, and answer. [Exit.

Alb.
Where was his son, when they did take his eyes?

Cur.
Come with my lady hither.

Alb.
He is not here.

Cur.
No, my good lord; he is gone back again.

Alb.
Knows he the wickedness?

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

Alb.
Gloster, 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 knowest. [Exeunt.

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