Lear.
Good morrow to you both.

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

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 adult'ress. O, are you free? [To Kent.
Some other time for that. Beloved Regan,
Thy sister's naught: oh Regan, ^{8 note}
she hath tied
&wlquo;Sharp-tooth'd unkindness like a vulture here;&wrquo; [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 wholesom end,
As clears her from all blame.

Lear.
My curses on her!—

Reg.
O Sir, you are old,
Nature in you stands on the very verge
Of her confine; you should be rul'd and led
By some discretion, that discerns your state
Better than you your Self: therefore, I pray you,
That to our sister you do make return;
Say, you have wrong'd her, Sir.

Lear.
Ask her forgiveness?
^{9 note}

Reg.
Good Sir, no more; these are unsightly tricks:
Return you to my sister.

Lear.
Never, Regan:
She hath abated me of half my train;
^{1 note}Look'd black 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! strike her young bones,
You taking airs, with lameness!—

Corn.
Fie, Sir! fie!

Lear.
You nimble lightnings, dart your blinding flames
Into her scornful eyes! infect her beauty,
You fen-suck'd fogs, drawn by the pow'rful sun
To fall, and blast her pride.

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; her eyes are fierce, but thine
Do comfort, and not burn. 'Tis not in thee
To grudge my pleasures, to cut off my train,
To bandy hasty words, to scant my sizes,
And, in conclusion, to oppose the bolt
Against my coming in. 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.
This is a slave, ^{2 note}whose easie-borrowed pride
Dwells in the fickle grace of her he follows.
Out, varlet, from my sight.

Corn.
What means your Grace?

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