Glo.
Your graces are right welcome.

Corn.
How now, my noble friend? since I came hither,
Which I can call but now, I have heard strange news.

Reg.
If it be true, all vengeance comes too short,
Which can pursue th'offender: how does my lord?

Glo.
O madam, my old heart is crack'd, 'tis crack'd.

Reg.
What, did my father's godson seek your life?
He whom my father nam'd, your Edgar?

Glo.
O, lady, lady, shame would have it hid.

Reg.
Was he not companion with the riotous knights,
That tend upon my father?

Glo.
I know not, madam: 'tis too bad, too bad,

Edm.
Yes, madam, he was of that consort.

Reg.
No marvel then, tho' he were ill affected;
'Tis they have put him on the old man's death,
To have th'expence and waste of his revenues.
I have this present evening from my sister
Been well inform'd of them; and with such cautions,
That if they come to sojourn at my house,
I'll not be there.

Corn.
Nor I, assure thee, Regan.

Edmund, I hear, that you have shewn your father
A child-like office.

Edm.
'Twas my duty, sir.

Glo.
He did reveal his practice, and receiv'd
This hurt you see, striving to apprehend him.

Corn.
Is he pursu'd?

Glo.
Ay, my good lord.

Corn.
If he be taken, he shall never more
Be fear'd of doing harm. As for you, Edmund,
Whose virtue and obedience doth this instant
So much commend itself, you shall be ours:
Natures of such deep trust we shall much need.

Edm.
I shall serve you, sir, truly, however else.

Glo.
I thank your grace.

Reg.
Our father he hath writ, so hath our sister,
Of diff'rences, which I best thought it fit
To answer from our home: the sev'ral messengers
From hence attend dispatch. Our good old friend,
Lay comforts to your bosom; and bestow
Your needful counsel to our businesses,
Which crave the instant use.

Glo.
I serve you, madam. Enter Steward and Kent, with swords drawn.

Glo.

Weapons? arms? what's the matter here?

Corn.

Keep peace, upon your lives; he dies, that strikes again; what's the matter?

Reg.

The messengers from our sister and the King?

Corn.

What is your difference? speak.

Stew.

I am scarce in breath, my lord.

Kent.

No marvel, you have so bestir'd your valour; you cowardly rascal! nature disclaims all share 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 o'th' trade.

Corn.

Speak yet, how grew your quarrel?

Stew.

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

Kent.

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

Corn.
Peace, sirrah! Know you no reverence?

Kent.
Yes, sir, but anger hath a privilege.

Corn.
Why art thou angry?

Kent.
That such a slave as this shou'd wear a sword,
Who wears no honesty: such smiling rogues as these,
Like rats, oft bite the holy cords in twain
Too intricate to unloose: sooth every passion,
That in the nature of their lords rebels:
Bring oil to fire, snow to their colder moods;
Forswear, affirm, and turn their halcyon beaks
With ev'ry gale and vary of their masters;
As knowing nought, like dogs, but following.
A plague upon your epileptick 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?

Glo.
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 is his fault?

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 stand on any shoulders that I see
Before me at this instant.

Corn.
This is some fellow,
Who having been prais'd for bluntness, doth affect

A sawcy roughness; and constrains the garb,
Quite from his nature. He can't flatter, he,—
An honest mind and plain, he must speak truth;
And they will take it, so; if not, he's plain.
These kind of knaves I know, which in this plainness
Harbour more craft, and more corrupt design,
Than twenty silly ducking minions,
That stretch their duties nicely.

Kent.
Sir, in good faith, in sincere verity,
Under th' allowance of your grand aspect,
Whose influence, like the wreath of radiant fire
On flickering Phœbus' front—

Corn.
What mean'st by this?

Kent.

To go out of my dialect, which you discommend so much: I know sir, I am no flatterer; he, that beguil'd you in a plain accent, was a plain knave; which for my part I will not be, though I should win your displeasure to intreat me to't.

Corn
What was th' offence you gave him?

Stew.
I never gave him any:
It pleas'd the King his master very lately
To strike at me upon his misconstruction;
When he conjunct, and flatt'ring his displeasure,
Tript me behind; being down, insulted, rail'd,
And put upon him such a deal of man,
That he 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 again.

Kent.
None of these rogues and cowards,
But Ajax is their fool.

Corn.
Fetch forth the stocks!
You stubborn ancient knave, you rev'rend braggart,
We'll teach you—

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, shew too bold malice
Against the grace and person of my master,
Stocking his messenger.

Corn.
Fetch forth the stocks;
As I have life and honour, there shall he sit 'till noon.

Reg.
'Till noon! 'till night, my lord, and all night too.

Kent.
Why, madam, if I were your father's dog,
You could not use me so.

Reg.
Sir, being his knave, I will. [Stocks brought out.

Corn.
This is a fellow of the self same nature
Our sister speaks of. Come, bring away the stocks.

Glo.
Let me beseech your grace not to do so;
His fault is much, and the good King his master
Will check him for it; but must take it ill
To be thus slighted in his messenger.

Corn.
I'll answer that.

Reg.
My sister may receive it worse,
To have her gentleman abus'd, assaulted. [Kent is put in the stocks.
Come, my lord, away. [Exeunt Reg. and Corn.

Glo.
I'm sorry for thee, friend; 'tis the Duke's pleasure,
Whose disposition, all the world well knows,
Will not be check'd nor stop'd. I'll intreat for thee.

Kent.
Pray, do not, sir, I've watch'd and travell'd hard;
Some time I shall sleep out, the rest I'll whistle:
A good man's fortune may grow out at heels;
Give you good morrow.

Glo.

The Duke's to blame in this, 'twill be ill taken.

Kent.
Approach, thou beacon to this underglobe, [Looking up to the moon.
That by thy comfortable beams I may
Peruse this letter. I know, 'tis from Cordelia;
Who hath most fortunately been inform'd
Of my obscure course. 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. [Sleeps.

Scene 3 SCENE changes to a part of a Heath. Enter Edgar.

Edg.
I've heard myself proclaim'd;
And, by the happy hollow of a tree,
Escap'd the hunt. No port is free, no place,
That guard and most unusual vigilance
Does not attend my taking. Whiles I may 'scape,
I will preserve myself: and am bethought
To take the basest and the poorest shape,
That ever Penury in contempt of man
Brought near to beast: my face I will besmear,
Blanket my loins; elfe all my hair in knots;
And out-face
The winds, and persecutions of the sky.
The country gives me proof and precedent
Of bedlam beggars, who, with roaring voices,
Strike in their numb'd and mortify'd bare arms
Pins, iron-spikes, thorns, sprigs of rosemary;
And thus from sheep-cotes, villages, and mills,
Inforce their charity; poor Turlygood! poor Tom!
That's something yet: Edgar I nothing am. [Exit. Scene 4 SCENE changes, again, to the Earl of Glocester's Castle. Kent in the stocks. Enter Lear and Attendants.

Lear.
'Tis strange, that they should so depart from home,
And not send back my messenger.

Kent.
Hail to thee, noble master!

Lear.
Ha! mak'st thou thy shame thy pastime?

Kent.
No, my lord.

Lear.
What's he, that hath so much thy place mistook,
To set thee here?

Kent.
It is both he and she,
Your son and daughter.

Lear.
No.

Kent.
Yes.

Lear.
No, I say.

Kent.
I say yea.

Lear.
By Jupiter, I swear no.

Kent.
By Juno, I swear, ay.

Lear.
They durst not do't.
They could not, would not do't; 'tis worse than murther,
To do upon respect such violent outrage:
Resolve me with all modest haste, which way
Thou might'st deserve, or they impose, this usage,
Coming from us.

Kent.
My lord, while at their home
I did commend your highness' letters to them,
Came a reeking post,
Stew'd in his haste, half breathless, panting forth
From Gonerill his mistress, salutation;
Deliver'd letters spight of intermission,
Which presently they read: on whose contents
They summon'd up their train, and strait took horse;
Commanding me to follow and attend
The leisure of their answer; gave me cold looks;
And meeting here the other messenger,
Whose welcome, I perceiv'd, had poison'd mine;
(Being the very fellow, which of late
Display'd so sawcily against your highness,)
Having more man than wit about me, I drew;
He rais'd the house with loud and coward cries:
Your son and daughter found this trespass worth
The shame which here it suffers.

Lear.
Oh, how this mother swells up tow'rd my heart!
Down, down, thou climbing sorrow!
Thy element's below; where is this daughter?

Kent.
With the Earl, sir, here within. Enter Glocester.

Lear.
Now Glo'ster! Glo. [Whispers Lear.]

Lear.
Ha! how's this?

Deny to speak with me? they're sick, they're weary,
They have travell'd all the night? mere fetches,
The images of revolt and flying off.
Bring me a better answer!

Glo.
My dear lord,
You know the fiery quality of the duke—

Lear.
Vengeance! plague! death! confusion!—
Fiery? what quality? why, Glocester, Glocester,
I'd speak with the Duke of Cornwall, and his wife.

Glo.
Well, my good lord, I have inform'd them so.

Lear.
Inform'd them? dost thou understand me, man?

Glo.
Ay, my good lord.

Lear.
The King would speak with Cornwall, the dear father
Wou'd with his daughter speak; commands her service:
Are they inform'd of this?—my breath and blood!—
Fiery? the fiery Duke? tell the hot Duke, that—
No, but not yet; may be, he is not well;
Infirmity doth still neglect all office,
Whereto our health is bound. I will forbear,
Nor task the indispos'd and sickly fit
As the sound man.—Death on my state! but wherefore
Should he sit here? this act persuades me,
That this remotion of the Duke and her
Is practice only. Give me my servant forth;
Go, tell the Duke and's wife, I'd speak with them:
Now, presently,—bid them come forth and hear me,
Or at their chamber-door I'll beat the drum,
'Till it cry, sleep to death.—Oh! are you come? Enter Cornwall, Regan, and Servants.

Corn.
Hail to your grace! [Kent is set at liberty.

Lear.
Good morrow both!
Oh me, my heart! my rising heart! but down!

Reg.
I am glad to see your highness.

Lear.
Regan, I think you are; I know what reason

I have to think so; if thou wert not glad,
I would divorce me from thy mother's tomb,
Sepulchring an adultress. Beloved Regan,
Thy sister's naught: Oh Regan, she hath tied
Sharp-tooth'd unkindness, like a vulture here; [Points to his heart.
I can scarce speak to thee; thou'lt not believe,
With how deprav'd a quality—oh Regan!

Reg.
I pray you, sir, take patience; I have hope,
You less know how to value her desert,
Than she to scant her duty.

Lear.
Say? how is that?

Reg.
I cannot think, my sister in the least
Would fail her obligation. If, perchance,
She have restrain'd the riots of your followers;
'Tis on such ground, and to such wholsome end,
As clears her from all blame.

Lear.
My curses on her!

Reg.
O, sir, you are old; you should be rul'd and led
By some discretion; therefore, I pray you,
That to our sister you do make return;
Say, you have wrong'd her, sir.

Lear.
Ask her forgiveness?
Do you but mark, how this becometh us!
Dear daughter, I confess that I am old;
Age is unnecessary: on my knees I beg,
That you'll vouchsafe me raiment, bed, and food.

Reg.
Good sir, no more; these are unsightly humours.
Return you to my sister.

Lear.
Never, Regan:
She hath abated me of half my train;
Look'd blank upon me; struck me with her tongue
Most serpent-like, upon the very heart.
All the stor'd vengeances of heaven fall
On her ingrateful top!

Reg.
O the blest gods!
So will you wish on me, when the rash mood is on.

Lear.
No, Regan, thou shalt never have my curse:

Thy tender-hefted nature shall not give
Thee o'er to harshness. 'Tis not in thee
To grudge my pleasures, to cut off my train,
To bandy hasty words. Thou better know'st
The offices of nature, bond of child-hood,
Effects of courtesie, dues of gratitude:
Thy half o'th' kingdom thou hast not forgot,
Wherein I thee endow'd.

Reg.
Good sir, to th' purpose. [Trumpet within.

Lear.
Who put my man i'th' stocks? Enter Steward.

Corn.
What trumpet's that?

Reg.
I know't, my sister's: this approves her letter,
That she would soon be here. Is your lady come?

Lear.
Out, varlet, from my sight!

Corn.
What means your grace? Enter Gonerill.

Lear.
Who stockt my servant? Regan, I've good hope,
Thou didst not know on't—Who comes here?
O heav'ns,
If you do love old men, if your sweet sway
Hallow obedience, if yourselves are old,
Make it your cause; send down and take my part.
Art not asham'd to look upon this beard?
O Regan, will you take her by the hand?

Gon.
Why not by th'hand, sir? how have I offended?
All's not offence, that indiscretion finds,
And dotage terms so.

Lear.
O sides, you are too tough!
Will you yet hold?—how came my man i'th'stocks?

Corn.
I set him there, sir; but his own disorders
Deserv'd much less advancement.

Lear.
You? did you?

Reg.
I pray you, father, being weak, seem so.
If, 'till the expiration of your month,

You will return and sojourn with my sister,
Dismissing half your train, come then to me!
I'm now from home, and out of that provision
Which shall be needful for your entertainment.

Lear.
Return to her? and fifty men dismiss'd?
No, rather I abjure all roofs, and chuse
To be a comrade with the wolf and owl;
Than have my smallest wants supplied by her.

Gon.
At your choice, sir.

Lear.
I pr'ythee, daughter, do not make me mad,
I will not trouble thee, my child. Farewel;
We'll no more meet, no more see one another.
Let shame come when it will, I do not call it;
I do not bid the thunder bearer shoot,
Nor tell tales of thee to high-judging Jove.
Mend, when thou canst; be better, at thy leisure.
I can be patient, I can stay with Regan;
I, and my hundred knights.

Reg.
Not altogether so:
I look'd not for you yet, nor am provided
For your fit welcome.

Lear.
Is this well spoken?

Reg.
I dare avouch it, sir: what, fifty followers?
Is it not well? what should you need of more?
Yea, or so many? since both charge and danger
Speak 'gainst so great a number: how in one house
Should many people under two commands
Hold amity? 'Tis hard, almost impossible.

Gon.
Why might not you, my lord, receive attendance
From those that she calls servants, or from mine?

Reg.
Why not, my lord? if then they chanc'd to slack ye,
We could controul them. If you'll come to me,
(For now I spy a danger) I entreat you
To bring but five-and-twenty; to no more
Will I give place or notice.

Lear.
I gave you all—

Reg.
And in good time you gave it.

Lear.
Oh, let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heav'n!
Keep me in temper! I would not be mad!

Gon.
Hear me, my lord;
What need you five-and-twenty, ten, or five,
To follow in a house, where twice so many
Have a command to tend you?

Reg.
What needs one?

Lear.
O, reason not the need: our basest beggars
Are in the poorest thing superfluous;
Allow not nature more than nature needs,
Man's life is cheap as beasts. But for true need,
You heav'ns, give me that patience which I need!
You see me here, you gods, a poor old man,
As full of grief as years; wretched in both;
If it be you that stir these daughters' hearts
Against their father, fool me not so much
To bear it tamely; touch me with noble anger;
O let not women's weapons, water-drops,
Stain my man's cheeks! No, you unnat'ral hags,
I will have such revenges on you both,
That all the world shall—I will do such things,
What they are, yet I know not; but they shall be
The terrors of the earth: you think, I'll weep;
No, I'll not weep. I have full cause of weeping:
This heart shall break into a thousand flaws,
Or ere I weep. O gods, I shall go mad! [Exeunt. END of the SECOND ACT.

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