Kent.

Did your letters pierce the Queen to any demonstration of grief?

Gent.
Yes, sir; she took 'em, read 'em in my presence;
And now and then a big round tear ran down
Her delicate cheek: much mov'd, but not to rage,
Patience with sorrow strove. Her smiles and tears
Were like a wetter May,

Kent.
Spoke you with her since?

Gent.
No.

Kent.
Well, sir; the poor distressed Lear's in town;
Who sometimes, in his better tune remembers
What we are come about; and by no means
Will yield to see Cordelia.

Gent.
Why, good sir?

Kent.
A sov'reign shame so bows him; his unkindness,
That stript her from his benediction, turn'd her
To foreign casualties, gave her dear rights
To his dog-hearted daughters; these things sting him.
So venomously, that burning shame detains him
From his dear daughter.

Gent.
Alack, poor gentleman!

Kent.
Of Albany's, and Cornwall's Pow'rs you heard.

Gent.
'Tis so, they are a-foot.

Kent.
Well, sir, I'll bring you to our master Lear,
And leave you to attend him. Some dear cause
Will in concealment wrap me up awhile:
When I am known aright, you shall not grieve
Lending me this acquaintance. Pray, along with me. [Exeunt.

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