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 can'st serve where thou dost stand condemn'd,
So may it come, thy master, whom thou lov'st,
Shall find thee full of labours. Horns within. Enter Lear, Knights and Attendants.

Lear.
Let me not stay a jot for dinner, go, get it ready:
How now, what art thou? [To Kent.

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 ^{4 note}him that is wise; to say little; to fear judgment; to fight when I cannot chuse, ^{5 note}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 qualify'd 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; if I like thee no worse after dinner, I will not part from thee yet. Dinner, ho, dinner—where's my knave? my fool? go you, and call my fool hither. You, you, sirrah, where's my daughter?

Enter Steward.

Stew.

So please you—

Lear.

What says the fellow there? call the clot-pole back: where's my fool, ho?—I think the world's asleep: how now? where's that mungrel?

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; there's a great abatement of kindness appears as well in the general dependants, as in the Duke himself also, and your daughter.

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, which I have rather blamed as my own jealous curiosity, than as a very ^{6 note}pretence and purpose of unkindness; I will look further into't; but where's my fool? I have not seen him these two days.

Knight.

Since my young lady's going into France, Sir, the fool hath much pined away.

Lear.

No more of that, I have noted it well; go you and tell my daughter, I would speak with her.

Go you, call hither my fool. 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!—you whorson dog, you slave, you cur.

Stew.

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

Lear.

Do you bandy looks with me, you 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; I'll teach you differences: away, away; if you will measure your lubber's length again, tarry again; but away, go to: have you wisdom? so.—

Lear.

Now, my friendly knave, I thank thee; there's earnest of thy service.