Kent.
If but as well I other accents borrow,
And can my speech diffuse, my good intent
May carry thro' itself to that full issue,
For which I raz'd my likeness. Now banish'd Kent,
If thou canst 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?

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 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 master.

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 qualified 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—

Lear.

What says the fellow there? call the clotpole back.

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?

Knight.

My lord, I know not what the matter is; but to my judgment, your highness is not entertain'd with that ceremonious affection as you were wont.

Lear.

Ha! say'st thou so?

Knight.

I beseech you pardon me, my lord, if I be mistaken; for my duty cannot be silent, when I think your highness is wrong'd.

Lear.

Thou but remember'st me of my own conception. I have perceiv'd a most faint neglect of late; I will look further into't. 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!

Stew.

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

Lear.

Do you bandy looks with me, rascal?

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.

To them, Enter Gonerill.

Lear.

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

Gon.
Your insolent retinue, sir,
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 sound a safe redress; but now grow fearful,
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.

Lear.
Are you our daughter?

Gon.
I would, you would make use of your good wisdom,
Whereof' 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 humours. I beseech you,
To understand my purposes aright.
You, as you're old and reverend, should be wise.
Here do you keep a 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. Be then desir'd
By her, that else will take the thing she begs,
Of fifty to disquantity your train;
And the remainders,
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 viper! 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. To them, Enter Albany.

Lear.
Woe! that too late repents.—O, sir, are you come?
Is it your will? speak, sir. Prepare my horses.— [To Alb.
Ingratitude! thou marble-hearted fiend,
More hideous when thou shew'st thee in a child,
Than the sea-monster.

Alb.
Pray, sir, be patient.

Lear.
Detested kite! thou liest. [To Gonerill.
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, wrencht 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.

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

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

Lear.
What, fifty of my followers at a clap?

Alb.
What's the matter, sir?

Lear.
I tell thee—life and death! I am asham'd,
That thou hast power to shake my manhood thus; [To Gon.
That these hot tears, which break from me perforce,
Should make thee worth them.—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—
Hear, Nature, hear; dear goddess, hear a father!
If thou didst intend
To make this creature fruitful, change thy purpose;
Into her womb convey sterility,
Dry up in her the organs of increase,
And 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 stamp wrinkles in her brow of youth,
With cadent tears fret channels in her cheeks:
Turn all her mother's pains and benefits
To laughter and contempt; that she may feel,
How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is,
To have a thankless child.—Go, go, my people. [Exeunt. END of the FIRST ACT.

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