Gon.
Welcome, my lord. I marvel, our mild husband
Not met us on the way.

Enter Steward.
Now, where's your Master?

Stew.
Madam, within; but never man so chang'd:
I told him of the army that was landed:
He smil'd at it. I told him, you were coming,
His answer was, the worse. Of Glo'ster's treachery,
And of the loyal service of his son,
When I inform'd him, then he call'd me sot;
And told me, I had turn'd the wrong side out.
What most he should dislike, seems pleasant to him;
What like, offensive.

Gon.
Then shall you go no further.
It is the cowish terrour of his spirit,
That dares not undertake: he'll not feel wrongs,
Which tie him to an answer; our wishes on the way
May prove effects. Back, Edmund, to my brother;
Hasten his musters, and conduct his powers.
I must change arms at home, and give the distaff
Into my husband's hands. This trusty servant
Shall pass between us: you ere long shall hear,
If you dare venture in your own behalf,
A mistress's command. Wear this; spare speech;
Decline your head. This kiss, if it durst speak,
Would stretch thy spirits up into the air:
Conceive, and fare thee well.

Edm.
Yours in the ranks of death.

Gon.
My most dear Glo'ster! [Exit Edmund.
Oh, the strange difference of man, and man!
To thee a woman's services are due,
My fool usurps my body.

Stew.
Madam, here comes my lord. Enter Albany.

Gon.
I have been worth the whistle.

Alb.
Oh Gonerill,
You are not worth the dust which the rude wind

Blows in your face.—^{7 note}I fear your disposition:
That Nature, which contemns its origine,
^{8 note}Cannot be border'd certain in itself;
^{9 note}

^{2 note}And come to deadly use.

Gon.
No more; 'tis foolish.

Alb.
Wisdom and goodness to the vile seem vile;
Filths savour but themselves—What have you done;
Tygers, not daughters, what have you perform'd?
A father, and a gracious aged man,
Most barb'rous, most degenerate, have you madded.
Cou'd my good Brother suffer you to do it,
^{3 note}

Gon.
Milk-liver'd man!
That bear'st a cheek for blows, a head for wrongs;
Who hast not in thy brows an eye discerning
Thine honour, from thy suffering: that not know'st,

Fools do these villains pity, who are punish'd
Ere they have done their mischef. Where's thy Drum?
France spreads his Banners in our noiseless land,
With plumed helm thy slayer begins his threats;
Whilst thou, a moral fool, sit'st still, and cry'st,
“Alack! why does he so?”—

Alb.
See thyself, devil:
^{4 note}Proper deformity seems not in the fiend
So horrid as in woman.

Gon.
O vain fool!

Alb.
Thou chang'd, and self-converted thing! For shame,
Be-monster not thy feature. Wer't my fitness
To let these hands obey my [boiling] blood,
They're apt enough to dislocate and tear
Thy flesh and bones.—Howe'er thou art a fiend,
A woman's shape doth shield thee.—

Gon.
Marry, your manhood now!— Enter Messenger.

Mes.
Oh, my good lord, the Duke of Cornwall's dead:
Slain by his servant, going to put out
The other eye of Glo'ster.

Alb.
Glo'ster's eyes!

Mes.
A servant, that he bred, thrill'd with remorse,
Oppos'd against the act; bending his sword
To his great master: who, thereat enrag'd,
Flew on him, and amongst them fell'd him dead:
But now without that harmful stroke, which since
Hath pluck'd him after.

Alb.
This shews you are above,
You Justices, that these our nether crimes

So speedily can venge. But O poor Glo'ster!
Lost he his other eye?

Mes.
Both, both, my lord.
This letter, Madam, craves a speedy answer:
'Tis from your sister.

Gon.
One way, I like this well;
But being widow, and my Glo'ster with her,
May all the building in my fancy pluck
Upon my hateful life. Another way,
The news is not so tart. I'll read, and answer. [Exit.

Alb.
Where was his son, when they did take his eyes?

Mes.
Come with my lady hither.

Alb.
He's not here.

Mes.
No, my good lord, I met him back again.

Alb.
Knows he the wickedness?

Mes.
Ay, my good lord, 'twas he inform'd against him,
And quit the house of purpose, that their punishment
Might have the freer course.

Alb.
Glo'ster, I live
To thank thee for the love thou shew'dst the King,
And to revenge thine eyes. Come hither, friend,
Tell me, what more thou know'st. [Exeunt. 5 ^noteSCENE III.

DOVER. Enter Kent, and a Gentleman.

Kent.
The King of France so suddenly gone back!
Know you the reason?

Gent.
Something he left imperfect in the State,
Which since his coming forth is thought of, which
Imports the Kingdom so much fear and danger,
That his return was most requir'd and necessary.

Kent.
Whom hath he left behind him General?

Gent.
The Mareschal of France, Monsieur le Far.

Kent

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

Gent.
I, Sir, she took 'em, read 'em in my presence;
And now and then an ample tear trill'd down
Her delicate cheek: it seem'd, she was a Queen
Over her passion, which, most rebel-like,
Sought to be King o'er her.

Kent.
O, then it mov'd her.—

Gent.
But not to Rage. &wlquo;Patience and Sorrow strove
&wlquo;Which should express her goodliest; you have seen
&wlquo;Sun-shine and rain at once—^{6 note}

Kent.
^{7 note}

Gent.
Yes, once, or twice, she heav'd the Name of Father
Pantingly forth, as if it prest her heart.
Cry'd, sisters! sisters!—Shame of Ladies! sisters!
Kent! Father! Sisters! what? i' th' storm? i'th' night?
Let Pity ne'er believe it!—there she shook
The holy water from her heav'nly Eyes;
^{8 note}And, Clamour-motion'd, then away she started
To deal with grief alone.

Kent.
—^{9 note}It is the Stars,
The Stars above us, govern our conditions:
^{1 note}Else one self-mate and mate could not beget
Such diff'rent issues. Spoke you with her since?

Gent.
No.

Kent.
Was this before the King return'd?

Gent.
No, since.

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 his daughter.

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: ^{2 note}
These things sting him
So venomously, that burning shame detains him
From his Cordelia.

Gent.
Alack, poor gentleman!

Kent.
Of Albany's, and Cornwall's Pow'rs you heard not?

Gent.
^{3 note}
'Tis said they are a-foot.

Kent.
Well, Sir, I'll bring you to our master Lear,
And leave you to attend him. ^{4 note}Some dear cause
Will in Concealment wrap me up a while:
When I am known aright, you shall not grieve
Lending me this acquaintance. Pray, along with me. [Exeunt.

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