Act III, Scene VII — A Room in Gloucester’s Castle…

Act III, Scene VII — A Room in Gloucester’s Castle

Enter Cornwall, Regan, Goneril, Edmund and Servants.

CORNWALL. Post speedily to my lord your husband, show him this letter: the army of France is landed. Seek out the traitor Gloucester.

[Exeunt some of the Servants.]

REGAN. Hang him instantly.

GONERIL. Pluck out his eyes.

CORNWALL. Leave him to my displeasure. Edmund, keep you our sister company: the revenges we are bound to take upon your traitorous father are not fit for your beholding. Advise the Duke where you are going, to a most festinate preparation: we are bound to the like. Our posts shall be swift and intelligent betwixt us. Farewell, dear sister, farewell, my lord of Gloucester.

Enter Oswald.

How now! Where’s the King?

OSWALD. My lord of Gloucester hath convey’d him hence: Some five or six and thirty of his knights, Hot questrists after him, met him at gate; Who, with some other of the lord’s dependants, Are gone with him toward Dover: where they boast To have well-armed friends.

CORNWALL. Get horses for your mistress.

GONERIL. Farewell, sweet lord, and sister.

CORNWALL. Edmund, farewell.

[Exeunt Goneril, Edmund and Oswald.]

Go seek the traitor Gloucester, Pinion him like a thief, bring him before us.

[Exeunt other Servants.]

Though well we may not pass upon his life Without the form of justice, yet our power Shall do a courtesy to our wrath, which men May blame, but not control. Who’s there? The traitor?

Enter Gloucester and Servants.

REGAN. Ingrateful fox! ’tis he.

CORNWALL. Bind fast his corky arms.

GLOUCESTER. What mean your graces? Good my friends, consider you are my guests. Do me no foul play, friends.

CORNWALL. Bind him, I say.

[Servants bind him.]

REGAN. Hard, hard. O filthy traitor!

GLOUCESTER. Unmerciful lady as you are, I’m none.

CORNWALL. To this chair bind him. Villain, thou shalt find—

[Regan plucks his beard.]

GLOUCESTER. By the kind gods, ’tis most ignobly done To pluck me by the beard.

REGAN. So white, and such a traitor!

GLOUCESTER. Naughty lady, These hairs which thou dost ravish from my chin Will quicken, and accuse thee. I am your host: With robber’s hands my hospitable favours You should not ruffle thus. What will you do?

CORNWALL. Come, sir, what letters had you late from France?

REGAN. Be simple answer’d, for we know the truth.

CORNWALL. And what confederacy have you with the traitors, Late footed in the kingdom?

REGAN. To whose hands have you sent the lunatic King? Speak.

GLOUCESTER. I have a letter guessingly set down, Which came from one that’s of a neutral heart, And not from one oppos’d.

CORNWALL. Cunning.

REGAN. And false.

CORNWALL. Where hast thou sent the King?

GLOUCESTER. To Dover.

REGAN. Wherefore to Dover? Wast thou not charg’d at peril,—

CORNWALL. Wherefore to Dover? Let him first answer that.

GLOUCESTER. I am tied to the stake, and I must stand the course.

REGAN. Wherefore to Dover, sir?

GLOUCESTER. Because I would not see thy cruel nails Pluck out his poor old eyes; nor thy fierce sister In his anointed flesh stick boarish fangs. The sea, with such a storm as his bare head In hell-black night endur’d, would have buoy’d up, And quench’d the stelled fires; Yet, poor old heart, he holp the heavens to rain. If wolves had at thy gate howl’d that stern time, Thou shouldst have said, ‘Good porter, turn the key.’ All cruels else subscrib’d: but I shall see The winged vengeance overtake such children.

CORNWALL. See’t shalt thou never. Fellows, hold the chair. Upon these eyes of thine I’ll set my foot.

[Gloucester is held down in his chair, while Cornwall plucks out one of his eyes and sets his foot on it.]

GLOUCESTER. He that will think to live till he be old, Give me some help!—O cruel! O you gods!

REGAN. One side will mock another; the other too!

CORNWALL. If you see vengeance—

FIRST SERVANT. Hold your hand, my lord: I have serv’d you ever since I was a child; But better service have I never done you Than now to bid you hold.

REGAN. How now, you dog!

FIRST SERVANT. If you did wear a beard upon your chin, I’d shake it on this quarrel. What do you mean?

CORNWALL. My villain?

[Draws, and runs at him.]

FIRST SERVANT. Nay, then, come on, and take the chance of anger.

[Draws. They fight. Cornwall is wounded.]

REGAN. [To another servant.] Give me thy sword. A peasant stand up thus?

[Snatches a sword, comes behind, and stabs him.]

FIRST SERVANT. O, I am slain! My lord, you have one eye left To see some mischief on him. O!

[Dies.]

CORNWALL. Lest it see more, prevent it. Out, vile jelly! Where is thy lustre now?

[Tears out Gloucester’s other eye and throws it on the ground.]

GLOUCESTER. All dark and comfortless. Where’s my son Edmund? Edmund, enkindle all the sparks of nature To quit this horrid act.

REGAN. Out, treacherous villain! Thou call’st on him that hates thee: it was he That made the overture of thy treasons to us; Who is too good to pity thee.

GLOUCESTER. O my follies! Then Edgar was abus’d. Kind gods, forgive me that, and prosper him!

REGAN. Go thrust him out at gates, and let him smell His way to Dover. How is’t, my lord? How look you?

CORNWALL. I have receiv’d a hurt: follow me, lady. Turn out that eyeless villain. Throw this slave Upon the dunghill. Regan, I bleed apace: Untimely comes this hurt: give me your arm.

[Exit Cornwall, led by Regan; Servants unbind Gloucester and lead him out.]

SECOND SERVANT. I’ll never care what wickedness I do, If this man come to good.

THIRD SERVANT. If she live long, And in the end meet the old course of death, Women will all turn monsters.

SECOND SERVANT. Let’s follow the old Earl, and get the bedlam To lead him where he would: his roguish madness Allows itself to anything.

THIRD SERVANT. Go thou: I’ll fetch some flax and whites of eggs To apply to his bleeding face. Now heaven help him!

[Exeunt.]

Act IV, Scene I — The heath

Enter Edgar.

EDGAR. Yet better thus, and known to be contemn’d, Than still contemn’d and flatter’d. To be worst, The lowest and most dejected thing of fortune, Stands still in esperance, lives not in fear: The lamentable change is from the best; The worst returns to laughter. Welcome then, Thou unsubstantial air that I embrace; The wretch that thou hast blown unto the worst Owes nothing to thy blasts.

Enter Gloucester, led by an Old Man.

But who comes here? My father, poorly led? World, world, O world! But that thy strange mutations make us hate thee, Life would not yield to age.

OLD MAN. O my good lord, I have been your tenant, and your father’s tenant these fourscore years.

GLOUCESTER. Away, get thee away; good friend, be gone. Thy comforts can do me no good at all; Thee they may hurt.

OLD MAN. You cannot see your way.

GLOUCESTER. I have no way, and therefore want no eyes; I stumbled when I saw. Full oft ’tis seen Our means secure us, and our mere defects Prove our commodities. O dear son Edgar, The food of thy abused father’s wrath! Might I but live to see thee in my touch, I’d say I had eyes again!

OLD MAN. How now! Who’s there?

EDGAR. [Aside.] O gods! Who is’t can say ‘I am at the worst’? I am worse than e’er I was.

OLD MAN. ’Tis poor mad Tom.

EDGAR. [Aside.] And worse I may be yet. The worst is not So long as we can say ‘This is the worst.’

OLD MAN. Fellow, where goest?

GLOUCESTER. Is it a beggar-man?

OLD MAN. Madman, and beggar too.

GLOUCESTER. He has some reason, else he could not beg. I’ the last night’s storm I such a fellow saw; Which made me think a man a worm. My son Came then into my mind, and yet my mind Was then scarce friends with him. I have heard more since. As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods, They kill us for their sport.

EDGAR. [Aside.] How should this be? Bad is the trade that must play fool to sorrow, Angering itself and others. Bless thee, master!

GLOUCESTER. Is that the naked fellow?

OLD MAN. Ay, my lord.

GLOUCESTER. Then prithee get thee away. If for my sake Thou wilt o’ertake us hence a mile or twain, I’ the way toward Dover, do it for ancient love, And bring some covering for this naked soul, Which I’ll entreat to lead me.

OLD MAN. Alack, sir, he is mad.

GLOUCESTER. ’Tis the time’s plague when madmen lead the blind. Do as I bid thee, or rather do thy pleasure; Above the rest, be gone.

OLD MAN. I’ll bring him the best ’parel that I have, Come on’t what will.

[Exit.]

GLOUCESTER. Sirrah naked fellow.

EDGAR. Poor Tom’s a-cold. [Aside.] I cannot daub it further.

GLOUCESTER. Come hither, fellow.

EDGAR. [Aside.] And yet I must. Bless thy sweet eyes, they bleed.

GLOUCESTER. Know’st thou the way to Dover?

EDGAR. Both stile and gate, horseway and footpath. Poor Tom hath been scared out of his good wits. Bless thee, good man’s son, from the foul fiend! Five fiends have been in poor Tom at once; of lust, as Obidicut; Hobbididence, prince of darkness; Mahu, of stealing; Modo, of murder; Flibbertigibbet, of mopping and mowing, who since possesses chambermaids and waiting women. So, bless thee, master!

GLOUCESTER. Here, take this purse, thou whom the heaven’s plagues Have humbled to all strokes: that I am wretched Makes thee the happier. Heavens deal so still! Let the superfluous and lust-dieted man, That slaves your ordinance, that will not see Because he does not feel, feel your power quickly; So distribution should undo excess, And each man have enough. Dost thou know Dover?

EDGAR. Ay, master.

GLOUCESTER. There is a cliff, whose high and bending head Looks fearfully in the confined deep: Bring me but to the very brim of it, And I’ll repair the misery thou dost bear With something rich about me: from that place I shall no leading need.

EDGAR. Give me thy arm: Poor Tom shall lead thee.

[Exeunt.]

Act IV, Scene II — Before the Duke of Albany’s Palace

Enter Goneril, Edmund; Oswald meeting them.

GONERIL. Welcome, my lord. I marvel our mild husband Not met us on the way. Now, where’s your master?

OSWALD. 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 Gloucester’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.

GONERIL. [To Edmund.] Then shall you go no further. It is the cowish terror 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 names at home, and give the distaff Into my husband’s hands. This trusty servant Shall pass between us. Ere long you are like to hear, If you dare venture in your own behalf, A mistress’s command. [Giving a favour.] 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.

EDMUND. Yours in the ranks of death.

[Exit Edmund.]

GONERIL. My most dear Gloucester. O, the difference of man and man! To thee a woman’s services are due; My fool usurps my body.

OSWALD. Madam, here comes my lord.

[Exit.]

Enter Albany.

GONERIL. I have been worth the whistle.

ALBANY. O Goneril! You are not worth the dust which the rude wind Blows in your face! I fear your disposition; That nature which contemns its origin Cannot be bordered certain in itself. She that herself will sliver and disbranch From her material sap, perforce must wither And come to deadly use.

GONERIL. No more; the text is foolish.

ALBANY. Wisdom and goodness to the vile seem vile; Filths savour but themselves. What have you done? Tigers, not daughters, what have you perform’d? A father, and a gracious aged man, Whose reverence even the head-lugg’d bear would lick, Most barbarous, most degenerate, have you madded. Could my good brother suffer you to do it? A man, a prince, by him so benefitted! If that the heavens do not their visible spirits Send quickly down to tame these vile offences, It will come, Humanity must perforce prey on itself, Like monsters of the deep.

GONERIL. 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 those villains pity who are punish’d Ere they have done their mischief. Where’s thy drum? France spreads his banners in our noiseless land; With plumed helm thy state begins to threat, Whilst thou, a moral fool, sitt’st still, and criest ‘Alack, why does he so?’

ALBANY. See thyself, devil! Proper deformity seems not in the fiend So horrid as in woman.

GONERIL. O vain fool!

ALBANY. Thou changed and self-cover’d thing, for shame! Be-monster not thy feature! Were’t my fitness To let these hands obey my blood, They are apt enough to dislocate and tear Thy flesh and bones. Howe’er thou art a fiend, A woman’s shape doth shield thee.

GONERIL. Marry, your manhood, mew!

Enter a Messenger.

ALBANY. What news?

MESSENGER. O, my good lord, the Duke of Cornwall’s dead; Slain by his servant, going to put out The other eye of Gloucester.

ALBANY. Gloucester’s eyes!

MESSENGER. 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 not without that harmful stroke which since Hath pluck’d him after.

ALBANY. This shows you are above, You justicers, that these our nether crimes So speedily can venge! But, O poor Gloucester! Lost he his other eye?

MESSENGER. Both, both, my lord. This letter, madam, craves a speedy answer; ’Tis from your sister.

GONERIL. [Aside.] One way I like this well; But being widow, and my Gloucester 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.]

ALBANY. Where was his son when they did take his eyes?

MESSENGER. Come with my lady hither.

ALBANY. He is not here.

MESSENGER. No, my good lord; I met him back again.

ALBANY. Knows he the wickedness?

MESSENGER. Ay, my good lord. ’Twas he inform’d against him; And quit the house on purpose, that their punishment Might have the freer course.

ALBANY. Gloucester, I live To thank thee for the love thou show’dst the King, And to revenge thine eyes. Come hither, friend, Tell me what more thou know’st.

[Exeunt.]

Act IV, Scene III — The French camp near Dover

Enter Kent and a Gentleman.

KENT. Why the King of France is so suddenly gone back, know you no reason?

GENTLEMAN. Something he left imperfect in the state, which since his coming forth is thought of, which imports to the kingdom so much fear and danger that his personal return was most required and necessary.

KENT. Who hath he left behind him general?

GENTLEMAN. The Mareschal of France, Monsieur La Far.

KENT. Did your letters pierce the queen to any demonstration of grief?

GENTLEMAN. Ay, sir; she took them, read them 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; who, most rebel-like, Sought to be king o’er her.

KENT. O, then it mov’d her.

GENTLEMAN. Not to a rage: patience and sorrow strove Who should express her goodliest. You have seen Sunshine and rain at once: her smiles and tears Were like a better day. Those happy smilets That play’d on her ripe lip seem’d not to know What guests were in her eyes; which parted thence As pearls from diamonds dropp’d. In brief, Sorrow would be a rarity most belov’d, If all could so become it.

KENT. Made she no verbal question?

GENTLEMAN. Faith, once or twice she heav’d the name of ‘father’ Pantingly forth, as if it press’d her heart; Cried ‘Sisters, sisters! Shame of ladies! sisters! Kent! father! sisters! What, i’ the storm? i’ the night? Let pity not be believ’d!’ There she shook The holy water from her heavenly eyes, And clamour master’d her: then away she started To deal with grief alone.

KENT. It is the stars, The stars above us govern our conditions; Else one self mate and make could not beget Such different issues. You spoke not with her since?

GENTLEMAN. No.

KENT. Was this before the King return’d?

GENTLEMAN. No, since.

KENT. Well, sir, the poor distressed Lear’s i’ the town; Who sometime, in his better tune, remembers What we are come about, and by no means Will yield to see his daughter.

GENTLEMAN. Why, good sir?

KENT. A sovereign shame so elbows him. His own unkindness, That stripp’d her from his benediction, turn’d her To foreign casualties, gave her dear rights To his dog-hearted daughters, these things sting His mind so venomously that burning shame Detains him from Cordelia.

GENTLEMAN. Alack, poor gentleman!

KENT. Of Albany’s and Cornwall’s powers you heard not?

GENTLEMAN. ’Tis so; they are afoot.

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. I pray you, go along with me.

[Exeunt.]

Act IV, Scene IV — The French camp. A Tent

Enter with drum and colours, Cordelia, Physician and Soldiers.

CORDELIA. Alack, ’tis he: why, he was met even now As mad as the vex’d sea; singing aloud; Crown’d with rank fumiter and furrow weeds, With harlocks, hemlock, nettles, cuckoo-flowers, Darnel, and all the idle weeds that grow In our sustaining corn. A century send forth; Search every acre in the high-grown field, And bring him to our eye.

[Exit an Officer.]

What can man’s wisdom In the restoring his bereaved sense, He that helps him take all my outward worth.

PHYSICIAN. There is means, madam: Our foster nurse of nature is repose, The which he lacks; that to provoke in him Are many simples operative, whose power Will close the eye of anguish.

CORDELIA. All bless’d secrets, All you unpublish’d virtues of the earth, Spring with my tears! Be aidant and remediate In the good man’s distress! Seek, seek for him; Lest his ungovern’d rage dissolve the life That wants the means to lead it.

Enter a Messenger.

MESSENGER. News, madam; The British powers are marching hitherward.

CORDELIA. ’Tis known before. Our preparation stands In expectation of them. O dear father, It is thy business that I go about; Therefore great France My mourning and important tears hath pitied. No blown ambition doth our arms incite, But love, dear love, and our ag’d father’s right: Soon may I hear and see him!

[Exeunt.]

Act IV, Scene V — A Room in Gloucester’s Castle

Enter Regan and Oswald.

REGAN. But are my brother’s powers set forth?

OSWALD. Ay, madam.

REGAN. Himself in person there?

OSWALD. Madam, with much ado. Your sister is the better soldier.

REGAN. Lord Edmund spake not with your lord at home?

OSWALD. No, madam.

REGAN. What might import my sister’s letter to him?

OSWALD. I know not, lady.

REGAN. Faith, he is posted hence on serious matter. It was great ignorance, Gloucester’s eyes being out, To let him live. Where he arrives he moves All hearts against us. Edmund, I think, is gone In pity of his misery, to dispatch His nighted life; moreover to descry The strength o’ th’enemy.

OSWALD. I must needs after him, madam, with my letter.

REGAN. Our troops set forth tomorrow; stay with us; The ways are dangerous.

OSWALD. I may not, madam: My lady charg’d my duty in this business.

REGAN. Why should she write to Edmund? Might not you Transport her purposes by word? Belike, Somethings, I know not what, I’ll love thee much. Let me unseal the letter.

OSWALD. Madam, I had rather—

REGAN. I know your lady does not love her husband; I am sure of that; and at her late being here She gave strange oeillades and most speaking looks To noble Edmund. I know you are of her bosom.

OSWALD. I, madam?

REGAN. I speak in understanding; y’are, I know’t: Therefore I do advise you take this note: My lord is dead; Edmund and I have talk’d, And more convenient is he for my hand Than for your lady’s. You may gather more. If you do find him, pray you give him this; And when your mistress hears thus much from you, I pray desire her call her wisdom to her. So, fare you well. If you do chance to hear of that blind traitor, Preferment falls on him that cuts him off.

OSWALD. Would I could meet him, madam! I should show What party I do follow.

REGAN. Fare thee well.

[Exeunt.]

Act IV, Scene VI — The country near Dover

Enter Gloucester, and Edgar dressed like a peasant.

GLOUCESTER. When shall I come to the top of that same hill?

EDGAR. You do climb up it now. Look how we labour.

GLOUCESTER. Methinks the ground is even.

EDGAR. Horrible steep. Hark, do you hear the sea?

GLOUCESTER. No, truly.

EDGAR. Why, then, your other senses grow imperfect By your eyes’ anguish.

GLOUCESTER. So may it be indeed. Methinks thy voice is alter’d; and thou speak’st In better phrase and matter than thou didst.

EDGAR. Y’are much deceiv’d: in nothing am I chang’d But in my garments.

GLOUCESTER. Methinks you’re better spoken.

EDGAR. Come on, sir; here’s the place. Stand still. How fearful And dizzy ’tis to cast one’s eyes so low! The crows and choughs that wing the midway air Show scarce so gross as beetles. Half way down Hangs one that gathers samphire—dreadful trade! Methinks he seems no bigger than his head. The fishermen that walk upon the beach Appear like mice; and yond tall anchoring bark, Diminish’d to her cock; her cock a buoy Almost too small for sight: the murmuring surge That on th’unnumber’d idle pebble chafes Cannot be heard so high. I’ll look no more; Lest my brain turn, and the deficient sight Topple down headlong.

GLOUCESTER. Set me where you stand.

EDGAR. Give me your hand. You are now within a foot of th’extreme verge. For all beneath the moon would I not leap upright.

GLOUCESTER. Let go my hand. Here, friend, ’s another purse; in it a jewel Well worth a poor man’s taking. Fairies and gods Prosper it with thee! Go thou further off; Bid me farewell, and let me hear thee going.

EDGAR. Now fare ye well, good sir.

[Seems to go.]

GLOUCESTER. With all my heart.

EDGAR. [Aside.] Why I do trifle thus with his despair Is done to cure it.

GLOUCESTER. O you mighty gods! This world I do renounce, and in your sights, Shake patiently my great affliction off: If I could bear it longer, and not fall To quarrel with your great opposeless wills, My snuff and loathed part of nature should Burn itself out. If Edgar live, O, bless him! Now, fellow, fare thee well.

EDGAR. Gone, sir, farewell.

[Gloucester leaps, and falls along]

And yet I know not how conceit may rob The treasury of life when life itself Yields to the theft. Had he been where he thought, By this had thought been past. Alive or dead? Ho you, sir! friend! Hear you, sir? speak! Thus might he pass indeed: yet he revives. What are you, sir?

GLOUCESTER. Away, and let me die.

EDGAR. Hadst thou been aught but gossamer, feathers, air, So many fathom down precipitating, Thou’dst shiver’d like an egg: but thou dost breathe; Hast heavy substance; bleed’st not; speak’st; art sound. Ten masts at each make not the altitude Which thou hast perpendicularly fell. Thy life is a miracle. Speak yet again.

GLOUCESTER. But have I fall’n, or no?

EDGAR. From the dread summit of this chalky bourn. Look up a-height, the shrill-gorg’d lark so far Cannot be seen or heard. Do but look up.

GLOUCESTER. Alack, I have no eyes. Is wretchedness depriv’d that benefit To end itself by death? ’Twas yet some comfort When misery could beguile the tyrant’s rage And frustrate his proud will.

EDGAR. Give me your arm. Up, so. How is’t? Feel you your legs? You stand.

GLOUCESTER. Too well, too well.

EDGAR. This is above all strangeness. Upon the crown o’ the cliff what thing was that Which parted from you?

GLOUCESTER. A poor unfortunate beggar.

EDGAR. As I stood here below, methought his eyes Were two full moons; he had a thousand noses, Horns whelk’d and waved like the enraged sea. It was some fiend. Therefore, thou happy father, Think that the clearest gods, who make them honours Of men’s impossibilities, have preserv’d thee.

GLOUCESTER. I do remember now: henceforth I’ll bear Affliction till it do cry out itself ‘Enough, enough,’ and die. That thing you speak of, I took it for a man; often ’twould say, ‘The fiend, the fiend’; he led me to that place.

EDGAR. Bear free and patient thoughts. But who comes here?

Enter Lear, fantastically dressed up with flowers.

The safer sense will ne’er accommodate His master thus.

LEAR. No, they cannot touch me for coining. I am the King himself.

EDGAR. O thou side-piercing sight!

LEAR. Nature’s above art in that respect. There’s your press money. That fellow handles his bow like a crow-keeper: draw me a clothier’s yard. Look, look, a mouse! Peace, peace, this piece of toasted cheese will do’t. There’s my gauntlet; I’ll prove it on a giant. Bring up the brown bills. O, well flown, bird! i’ the clout, i’ the clout. Hewgh! Give the word.

EDGAR. Sweet marjoram.

LEAR. Pass.

GLOUCESTER. I know that voice.

LEAR. Ha! Goneril with a white beard! They flattered me like a dog; and told me I had white hairs in my beard ere the black ones were there. To say ‘ay’ and ‘no’ to everything I said ‘ay’ and ‘no’ to was no good divinity. When the rain came to wet me once, and the wind to make me chatter; when the thunder would not peace at my bidding; there I found ’em, there I smelt ’em out. Go to, they are not men o’ their words: they told me I was everything; ’tis a lie, I am not ague-proof.

GLOUCESTER. The trick of that voice I do well remember: Is’t not the King?

LEAR. Ay, every inch a king. When I do stare, see how the subject quakes. I pardon that man’s life. What was thy cause? Adultery? Thou shalt not die: die for adultery! No: The wren goes to’t, and the small gilded fly Does lecher in my sight. Let copulation thrive; For Gloucester’s bastard son was kinder to his father Than my daughters got ’tween the lawful sheets. To’t, luxury, pell-mell! for I lack soldiers. Behold yond simp’ring dame, Whose face between her forks presages snow; That minces virtue, and does shake the head To hear of pleasure’s name. The fitchew nor the soiled horse goes to’t with a more riotous appetite. Down from the waist they are centaurs, though women all above. But to the girdle do the gods inherit, beneath is all the fiend’s; there’s hell, there’s darkness, there is the sulphurous pit; burning, scalding, stench, consumption. Fie, fie, fie! pah, pah! Give me an ounce of civet, good apothecary, to sweeten my imagination. There’s money for thee.

GLOUCESTER. O, let me kiss that hand!

LEAR. Let me wipe it first; it smells of mortality.

GLOUCESTER. O ruin’d piece of nature, this great world Shall so wear out to naught. Dost thou know me?

LEAR. I remember thine eyes well enough. Dost thou squiny at me? No, do thy worst, blind Cupid; I’ll not love. Read thou this challenge; mark but the penning of it.

GLOUCESTER. Were all the letters suns, I could not see one.

EDGAR. I would not take this from report, It is, and my heart breaks at it.

LEAR. Read.

GLOUCESTER. What, with the case of eyes?

LEAR. O, ho, are you there with me? No eyes in your head, nor no money in your purse? Your eyes are in a heavy case, your purse in a light, yet you see how this world goes.

GLOUCESTER. I see it feelingly.

LEAR. What, art mad? A man may see how the world goes with no eyes. Look with thine ears. See how yon justice rails upon yon simple thief. Hark, in thine ear: change places; and, handy-dandy, which is the justice, which is the thief? Thou hast seen a farmer’s dog bark at a beggar?

GLOUCESTER. Ay, sir.

LEAR. And the creature run from the cur? There thou mightst behold the great image of authority: a dog’s obeyed in office. Thou rascal beadle, hold thy bloody hand! Why dost thou lash that whore? Strip thine own back; Thou hotly lusts to use her in that kind For which thou whipp’st her. The usurer hangs the cozener. Through tatter’d clothes great vices do appear; Robes and furr’d gowns hide all. Plate sin with gold, And the strong lance of justice hurtless breaks; Arm it in rags, a pygmy’s straw does pierce it. None does offend, none, I say none; I’ll able ’em; Take that of me, my friend, who have the power To seal the accuser’s lips. Get thee glass eyes, And like a scurvy politician, seem To see the things thou dost not. Now, now, now, now: Pull off my boots: harder, harder, so.

EDGAR. O, matter and impertinency mix’d! Reason in madness!

LEAR. If thou wilt weep my fortunes, take my eyes. I know thee well enough, thy name is Gloucester. Thou must be patient; we came crying hither: Thou know’st the first time that we smell the air We wawl and cry. I will preach to thee: mark.

GLOUCESTER. Alack, alack the day!

LEAR. When we are born, we cry that we are come To this great stage of fools. This a good block: It were a delicate stratagem to shoe A troop of horse with felt. I’ll put’t in proof And when I have stol’n upon these son-in-laws, Then kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill!

Enter a Gentleman with Attendants.

GENTLEMAN. O, here he is: lay hand upon him. Sir, Your most dear daughter—

LEAR. No rescue? What, a prisoner? I am even The natural fool of fortune. Use me well; You shall have ransom. Let me have surgeons; I am cut to the brains.

GENTLEMAN. You shall have anything.

LEAR. No seconds? All myself? Why, this would make a man a man of salt, To use his eyes for garden water-pots, Ay, and for laying autumn’s dust.

GENTLEMAN. Good sir.

LEAR. I will die bravely, like a smug bridegroom. What! I will be jovial. Come, come, I am a king, my masters, know you that.

GENTLEMAN. You are a royal one, and we obey you.

LEAR. Then there’s life in’t. Come, and you get it, You shall get it by running. Sa, sa, sa, sa!

[Exit running. Attendants follow.]

GENTLEMAN. A sight most pitiful in the meanest wretch, Past speaking of in a king! Thou hast one daughter Who redeems nature from the general curse Which twain have brought her to.

EDGAR. Hail, gentle sir.

GENTLEMAN. Sir, speed you. What’s your will?

EDGAR. Do you hear aught, sir, of a battle toward?

GENTLEMAN. Most sure and vulgar. Everyone hears that, which can distinguish sound.

EDGAR. But, by your favour, How near’s the other army?

GENTLEMAN. Near and on speedy foot; the main descry Stands on the hourly thought.

EDGAR. I thank you sir, that’s all.

GENTLEMAN. Though that the queen on special cause is here, Her army is mov’d on.

EDGAR. I thank you, sir.

[Exit Gentleman.]

GLOUCESTER. You ever-gentle gods, take my breath from me; Let not my worser spirit tempt me again To die before you please.

EDGAR. Well pray you, father.

GLOUCESTER. Now, good sir, what are you?

EDGAR. A most poor man, made tame to fortune’s blows; Who, by the art of known and feeling sorrows, Am pregnant to good pity. Give me your hand, I’ll lead you to some biding.

GLOUCESTER. Hearty thanks: The bounty and the benison of heaven To boot, and boot.

Enter Oswald.

OSWALD. A proclaim’d prize! Most happy! That eyeless head of thine was first fram’d flesh To raise my fortunes. Thou old unhappy traitor, Briefly thyself remember. The sword is out That must destroy thee.

GLOUCESTER. Now let thy friendly hand Put strength enough to’t.

[Edgar interposes.]

OSWALD. Wherefore, bold peasant, Dar’st thou support a publish’d traitor? Hence; Lest that th’infection of his fortune take Like hold on thee. Let go his arm.

EDGAR. Chill not let go, zir, without vurther ’casion.

OSWALD. Let go, slave, or thou diest!

EDGAR. Good gentleman, go your gait, and let poor volke pass. An chud ha’ bin zwaggered out of my life, ’twould not ha’ bin zo long as ’tis by a vortnight. Nay, come not near th’old man; keep out, che vor ye, or ise try whether your costard or my ballow be the harder: chill be plain with you.

OSWALD. Out, dunghill!

EDGAR. Chill pick your teeth, zir. Come! No matter vor your foins.

[They fight, and Edgar knocks him down.]

OSWALD. Slave, thou hast slain me. Villain, take my purse. If ever thou wilt thrive, bury my body; And give the letters which thou find’st about me To Edmund, Earl of Gloucester. Seek him out Upon the British party. O, untimely death!

[Dies.]

EDGAR. I know thee well. A serviceable villain, As duteous to the vices of thy mistress As badness would desire.

GLOUCESTER. What, is he dead?

EDGAR. Sit you down, father; rest you. Let’s see these pockets; the letters that he speaks of May be my friends. He’s dead; I am only sorry He had no other deathsman. Let us see: Leave, gentle wax; and, manners, blame us not. To know our enemies’ minds, we rip their hearts, Their papers is more lawful. [Reads.] ‘Let our reciprocal vows be remembered. You have many opportunities to cut him off: if your will want not, time and place will be fruitfully offered. There is nothing done if he return the conqueror: then am I the prisoner, and his bed my gaol; from the loathed warmth whereof deliver me, and supply the place for your labour. ‘Your (wife, so I would say) affectionate servant, ‘Goneril.’ O indistinguish’d space of woman’s will! A plot upon her virtuous husband’s life, And the exchange my brother! Here in the sands Thee I’ll rake up, the post unsanctified Of murderous lechers: and in the mature time, With this ungracious paper strike the sight Of the death-practis’d Duke: for him ’tis well That of thy death and business I can tell.

[Exit Edgar, dragging out the body.]

GLOUCESTER. The King is mad: how stiff is my vile sense, That I stand up, and have ingenious feeling Of my huge sorrows! Better I were distract: So should my thoughts be sever’d from my griefs, And woes by wrong imaginations lose The knowledge of themselves.

[A drum afar off.]

EDGAR. Give me your hand. Far off methinks I hear the beaten drum. Come, father, I’ll bestow you with a friend.

[Exeunt.]

Act IV, Scene VII — A Tent in the French Camp

Lear on a bed, asleep, soft music playing; Physician, Gentleman and others attending.

Enter Cordelia and Kent.

CORDELIA. O thou good Kent, how shall I live and work To match thy goodness? My life will be too short, And every measure fail me.

KENT. To be acknowledg’d, madam, is o’erpaid. All my reports go with the modest truth; Nor more, nor clipp’d, but so.

CORDELIA. Be better suited, These weeds are memories of those worser hours: I prithee put them off.

KENT. Pardon, dear madam; Yet to be known shortens my made intent. My boon I make it that you know me not Till time and I think meet.

CORDELIA. Then be’t so, my good lord. [To the Physician.] How does the King?

PHYSICIAN. Madam, sleeps still.

CORDELIA. O you kind gods, Cure this great breach in his abused nature! The untun’d and jarring senses, O, wind up Of this child-changed father.

PHYSICIAN. So please your majesty That we may wake the King: he hath slept long.

CORDELIA. Be govern’d by your knowledge, and proceed I’ the sway of your own will. Is he array’d?

PHYSICIAN. Ay, madam. In the heaviness of sleep We put fresh garments on him. Be by, good madam, when we do awake him; I doubt not of his temperance.

CORDELIA. Very well.

PHYSICIAN. Please you draw near. Louder the music there!

CORDELIA. O my dear father! Restoration hang Thy medicine on my lips; and let this kiss Repair those violent harms that my two sisters Have in thy reverence made!

KENT. Kind and dear princess!

CORDELIA. Had you not been their father, these white flakes Did challenge pity of them. Was this a face To be oppos’d against the warring winds? To stand against the deep dread-bolted thunder? In the most terrible and nimble stroke Of quick cross lightning? to watch, poor perdu! With this thin helm? Mine enemy’s dog, Though he had bit me, should have stood that night Against my fire; and wast thou fain, poor father, To hovel thee with swine and rogues forlorn In short and musty straw? Alack, alack! ’Tis wonder that thy life and wits at once Had not concluded all. He wakes; speak to him.

PHYSICIAN. Madam, do you; ’tis fittest.

CORDELIA. How does my royal lord? How fares your majesty?

LEAR. You do me wrong to take me out o’ the grave. Thou art a soul in bliss; but I am bound Upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears Do scald like molten lead.

CORDELIA. Sir, do you know me?

LEAR. You are a spirit, I know: when did you die?

CORDELIA. Still, still, far wide!

PHYSICIAN. He’s scarce awake: let him alone awhile.

LEAR. Where have I been? Where am I? Fair daylight? I am mightily abus’d. I should e’en die with pity, To see another thus. I know not what to say. I will not swear these are my hands: let’s see; I feel this pin prick. Would I were assur’d Of my condition!

CORDELIA. O, look upon me, sir, And hold your hands in benediction o’er me. No, sir, you must not kneel.

LEAR. Pray, do not mock me: I am a very foolish fond old man, Fourscore and upward, not an hour more nor less; And to deal plainly, I fear I am not in my perfect mind. Methinks I should know you, and know this man; Yet I am doubtful: for I am mainly ignorant What place this is; and all the skill I have Remembers not these garments; nor I know not Where I did lodge last night. Do not laugh at me; For, as I am a man, I think this lady To be my child Cordelia.

CORDELIA. And so I am. I am.

LEAR. Be your tears wet? Yes, faith. I pray weep not: If you have poison for me, I will drink it. I know you do not love me; for your sisters Have, as I do remember, done me wrong. You have some cause, they have not.

CORDELIA. No cause, no cause.

LEAR. Am I in France?

KENT. In your own kingdom, sir.

LEAR. Do not abuse me.

PHYSICIAN. Be comforted, good madam, the great rage, You see, is kill’d in him: and yet it is danger To make him even o’er the time he has lost. Desire him to go in; trouble him no more Till further settling.

CORDELIA. Will’t please your highness walk?

LEAR. You must bear with me: Pray you now, forget and forgive: I am old and foolish.

[Exeunt Lear, Cordelia, Physician and Attendants.]

GENTLEMAN. Holds it true, sir, that the Duke of Cornwall was so slain?

KENT. Most certain, sir.

GENTLEMAN. Who is conductor of his people?

KENT. As ’tis said, the bastard son of Gloucester.

GENTLEMAN. They say Edgar, his banished son, is with the Earl of Kent in Germany.

KENT. Report is changeable. ’Tis time to look about; the powers of the kingdom approach apace.

GENTLEMAN. The arbitrement is like to be bloody. Fare you well, sir.

[Exit.]

KENT. My point and period will be throughly wrought, Or well or ill, as this day’s battle’s fought.

[Exit.]

Act V, Scene I — The Camp of the British Forces near Dover

Enter, with drum and colours Edmund, Regan, Officers, Soldiers and others.

EDMUND. Know of the Duke if his last purpose hold, Or whether since he is advis’d by aught To change the course, he’s full of alteration And self-reproving, bring his constant pleasure.

[To an Officer, who goes out.]

REGAN. Our sister’s man is certainly miscarried.

EDMUND. ’Tis to be doubted, madam.

REGAN. Now, sweet lord, You know the goodness I intend upon you: Tell me but truly, but then speak the truth, Do you not love my sister?

EDMUND. In honour’d love.

REGAN. But have you never found my brother’s way To the forfended place?

EDMUND. That thought abuses you.

REGAN. I am doubtful that you have been conjunct And bosom’d with her, as far as we call hers.

EDMUND. No, by mine honour, madam.

REGAN. I never shall endure her, dear my lord, Be not familiar with her.

EDMUND. Fear not, She and the Duke her husband!

Enter with drum and colours Albany, Goneril and Soldiers.

GONERIL. [Aside.] I had rather lose the battle than that sister Should loosen him and me.

ALBANY. Our very loving sister, well be-met. Sir, this I heard: the King is come to his daughter, With others whom the rigour of our state Forc’d to cry out. Where I could not be honest, I never yet was valiant. For this business, It toucheth us as France invades our land, Not bolds the King, with others whom I fear Most just and heavy causes make oppose.

EDMUND. Sir, you speak nobly.

REGAN. Why is this reason’d?

GONERIL. Combine together ’gainst the enemy; For these domestic and particular broils Are not the question here.

ALBANY. Let’s, then, determine with the ancient of war On our proceeding.

EDMUND. I shall attend you presently at your tent.

REGAN. Sister, you’ll go with us?

GONERIL. No.

REGAN. ’Tis most convenient; pray you, go with us.

GONERIL. [Aside.] O, ho, I know the riddle. I will go.

[Exeunt Edmund, Regan, Goneril, Officers, Soldiers and Attendants.]

As they are going out, enter Edgar disguised.

EDGAR. If e’er your grace had speech with man so poor, Hear me one word.

ALBANY. I’ll overtake you. Speak.

EDGAR. Before you fight the battle, ope this letter. If you have victory, let the trumpet sound For him that brought it: wretched though I seem, I can produce a champion that will prove What is avouched there. If you miscarry, Your business of the world hath so an end, And machination ceases. Fortune love you!

ALBANY. Stay till I have read the letter.

EDGAR. I was forbid it. When time shall serve, let but the herald cry, And I’ll appear again.

ALBANY. Why, fare thee well. I will o’erlook thy paper.

[Exit Edgar.]

Enter Edmund.

EDMUND. The enemy’s in view; draw up your powers. Here is the guess of their true strength and forces By diligent discovery; but your haste Is now urg’d on you.

ALBANY. We will greet the time.

[Exit.]

EDMUND. To both these sisters have I sworn my love; Each jealous of the other, as the stung Are of the adder. Which of them shall I take? Both? One? Or neither? Neither can be enjoy’d, If both remain alive. To take the widow Exasperates, makes mad her sister Goneril; And hardly shall I carry out my side, Her husband being alive. Now, then, we’ll use His countenance for the battle; which being done, Let her who would be rid of him devise His speedy taking off. As for the mercy Which he intends to Lear and to Cordelia, The battle done, and they within our power, Shall never see his pardon: for my state Stands on me to defend, not to debate.

[Exit.]

Act V, Scene II — A field between the two Camps

Alarum within. Enter with drum and colours, Lear, Cordelia and their Forces, and exeunt.

Enter Edgar and Gloucester.

EDGAR. Here, father, take the shadow of this tree For your good host; pray that the right may thrive: If ever I return to you again, I’ll bring you comfort.

GLOUCESTER. Grace go with you, sir!

[Exit Edgar.]

Alarum and retreat within. Enter Edgar.

EDGAR. Away, old man, give me thy hand, away! King Lear hath lost, he and his daughter ta’en: Give me thy hand; come on!

GLOUCESTER. No further, sir; a man may rot even here.

EDGAR. What, in ill thoughts again? Men must endure Their going hence, even as their coming hither; Ripeness is all. Come on.

GLOUCESTER. And that’s true too.

[Exeunt.]

Act V, Scene III — The British Camp near Dover

Enter in conquest with drum and colours, Edmund, Lear and Cordelia as prisoners; Officers, Soldiers, &c.

EDMUND. Some officers take them away: good guard Until their greater pleasures first be known That are to censure them.

CORDELIA. We are not the first Who with best meaning have incurr’d the worst. For thee, oppressed King, I am cast down; Myself could else out-frown false fortune’s frown. Shall we not see these daughters and these sisters?

LEAR. No, no, no, no. Come, let’s away to prison: We two alone will sing like birds i’ the cage: When thou dost ask me blessing I’ll kneel down And ask of thee forgiveness. So we’ll live, And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh At gilded butterflies, and hear poor rogues Talk of court news; and we’ll talk with them too, Who loses and who wins; who’s in, who’s out; And take upon’s the mystery of things, As if we were God’s spies. And we’ll wear out, In a wall’d prison, packs and sects of great ones That ebb and flow by the moon.

EDMUND. Take them away.

LEAR. Upon such sacrifices, my Cordelia, The gods themselves throw incense. Have I caught thee? He that parts us shall bring a brand from heaven, And fire us hence like foxes. Wipe thine eyes; The good years shall devour them, flesh and fell, Ere they shall make us weep! We’ll see ’em starve first: come.

[Exeunt Lear and Cordelia, guarded.]

EDMUND. Come hither, captain, hark. Take thou this note [giving a paper]; go follow them to prison. One step I have advanc’d thee; if thou dost As this instructs thee, thou dost make thy way To noble fortunes: know thou this, that men Are as the time is; to be tender-minded Does not become a sword. Thy great employment Will not bear question; either say thou’lt do’t, Or thrive by other means.

CAPTAIN. I’ll do’t, my lord.

EDMUND. About it; and write happy when thou hast done. Mark, I say, instantly; and carry it so As I have set it down.

CAPTAIN. I cannot draw a cart, nor eat dried oats; If it be man’s work, I’ll do’t.

[Exit.]

Flourish. Enter Albany, Goneril, Regan, Officers and Attendants.

ALBANY. Sir, you have show’d today your valiant strain, And fortune led you well: you have the captives Who were the opposites of this day’s strife: I do require them of you, so to use them As we shall find their merits and our safety May equally determine.

EDMUND. Sir, I thought it fit To send the old and miserable King To some retention and appointed guard; Whose age has charms in it, whose title more, To pluck the common bosom on his side, And turn our impress’d lances in our eyes Which do command them. With him I sent the queen; My reason all the same; and they are ready Tomorrow, or at further space, to appear Where you shall hold your session. At this time We sweat and bleed: the friend hath lost his friend; And the best quarrels in the heat are curs’d By those that feel their sharpness. The question of Cordelia and her father Requires a fitter place.

ALBANY. Sir, by your patience, I hold you but a subject of this war, Not as a brother.

REGAN. That’s as we list to grace him. Methinks our pleasure might have been demanded Ere you had spoke so far. He led our powers; Bore the commission of my place and person; The which immediacy may well stand up And call itself your brother.

GONERIL. Not so hot: In his own grace he doth exalt himself, More than in your addition.

REGAN. In my rights, By me invested, he compeers the best.

ALBANY. That were the most, if he should husband you.

REGAN. Jesters do oft prove prophets.

GONERIL. Holla, holla! That eye that told you so look’d but asquint.

REGAN. Lady, I am not well; else I should answer From a full-flowing stomach. General, Take thou my soldiers, prisoners, patrimony; Dispose of them, of me; the walls are thine: Witness the world that I create thee here My lord and master.

GONERIL. Mean you to enjoy him?

ALBANY. The let-alone lies not in your good will.

EDMUND. Nor in thine, lord.

ALBANY. Half-blooded fellow, yes.

REGAN. [To Edmund.] Let the drum strike, and prove my title thine.

ALBANY. Stay yet; hear reason: Edmund, I arrest thee On capital treason; and, in thine arrest, This gilded serpent. [pointing to Goneril.] For your claim, fair sister, I bar it in the interest of my wife; ’Tis she is sub-contracted to this lord, And I her husband contradict your bans. If you will marry, make your loves to me, My lady is bespoke.

GONERIL. An interlude!

ALBANY. Thou art arm’d, Gloucester. Let the trumpet sound: If none appear to prove upon thy person Thy heinous, manifest, and many treasons, There is my pledge. [Throwing down a glove.] I’ll make it on thy heart, Ere I taste bread, thou art in nothing less Than I have here proclaim’d thee.

REGAN. Sick, O, sick!

GONERIL. [Aside.] If not, I’ll ne’er trust medicine.

EDMUND. There’s my exchange. [Throwing down a glove.] What in the world he is That names me traitor, villain-like he lies. Call by thy trumpet: he that dares approach, On him, on you, who not? I will maintain My truth and honour firmly.

ALBANY. A herald, ho!

Enter a Herald.

Trust to thy single virtue; for thy soldiers, All levied in my name, have in my name Took their discharge.

REGAN. My sickness grows upon me.

ALBANY. She is not well. Convey her to my tent.

[Exit Regan, led.]

Come hither, herald. Let the trumpet sound And read out this.

OFFICER. Sound, trumpet!

[A trumpet sounds.]

HERALD. [Reads.] ‘If any man of quality or degree within the lists of the army will maintain upon Edmund, supposed Earl of Gloucester, that he is a manifold traitor, let him appear by the third sound of the trumpet. He is bold in his defence.’

EDMUND. Sound!

[First trumpet.]

HERALD. Again!

[Second trumpet.]

HERALD. Again!

Third trumpet. Trumpet answers within. Enter Edgar, armed, preceded by a trumpet.

ALBANY. Ask him his purposes, why he appears Upon this call o’ the trumpet.

HERALD. What are you? Your name, your quality? and why you answer This present summons?

EDGAR. Know my name is lost; By treason’s tooth bare-gnawn and canker-bit. Yet am I noble as the adversary I come to cope.

ALBANY. Which is that adversary?

EDGAR. What’s he that speaks for Edmund, Earl of Gloucester?

EDMUND. Himself, what say’st thou to him?

EDGAR. Draw thy sword, That if my speech offend a noble heart, Thy arm may do thee justice: here is mine. Behold, it is the privilege of mine honours, My oath, and my profession: I protest, Maugre thy strength, youth, place, and eminence, Despite thy victor sword and fire-new fortune, Thy valour and thy heart, thou art a traitor; False to thy gods, thy brother, and thy father; Conspirant ’gainst this high illustrious prince; And, from the extremest upward of thy head To the descent and dust beneath thy foot, A most toad-spotted traitor. Say thou ‘No,’ This sword, this arm, and my best spirits are bent To prove upon thy heart, whereto I speak, Thou liest.

EDMUND. In wisdom I should ask thy name; But since thy outside looks so fair and warlike, And that thy tongue some say of breeding breathes, What safe and nicely I might well delay By rule of knighthood, I disdain and spurn. Back do I toss those treasons to thy head, With the hell-hated lie o’erwhelm thy heart; Which for they yet glance by and scarcely bruise, This sword of mine shall give them instant way, Where they shall rest for ever. Trumpets, speak!

[Alarums. They fight. Edmund falls.]

ALBANY. Save him, save him!

GONERIL. This is mere practice, Gloucester: By the law of arms thou wast not bound to answer An unknown opposite; thou art not vanquish’d, But cozen’d and beguil’d.

ALBANY. Shut your mouth, dame, Or with this paper shall I stop it. Hold, sir; Thou worse than any name, read thine own evil. No tearing, lady; I perceive you know it.

[Gives the letter to Edmund.]

GONERIL. Say if I do, the laws are mine, not thine: Who can arraign me for’t?

[Exit.]

ALBANY. Most monstrous! O! Know’st thou this paper?

EDMUND. Ask me not what I know.

ALBANY. [To an Officer, who goes out.] Go after her; she’s desperate; govern her.

EDMUND. What you have charg’d me with, that have I done; And more, much more; the time will bring it out. ’Tis past, and so am I. But what art thou That hast this fortune on me? If thou’rt noble, I do forgive thee.

EDGAR. Let’s exchange charity. I am no less in blood than thou art, Edmund; If more, the more thou hast wrong’d me. My name is Edgar and thy father’s son. The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices Make instruments to plague us: The dark and vicious place where thee he got Cost him his eyes.

EDMUND. Thou hast spoken right, ’tis true; The wheel is come full circle; I am here.

ALBANY. Methought thy very gait did prophesy A royal nobleness. I must embrace thee. Let sorrow split my heart if ever I Did hate thee or thy father.

EDGAR. Worthy prince, I know’t.

ALBANY. Where have you hid yourself? How have you known the miseries of your father?

EDGAR. By nursing them, my lord. List a brief tale; And when ’tis told, O that my heart would burst! The bloody proclamation to escape That follow’d me so near,—O, our lives’ sweetness! That with the pain of death we’d hourly die Rather than die at once!—taught me to shift Into a madman’s rags; t’assume a semblance That very dogs disdain’d; and in this habit Met I my father with his bleeding rings, Their precious stones new lost; became his guide, Led him, begg’d for him, sav’d him from despair; Never,—O fault!—reveal’d myself unto him Until some half hour past, when I was arm’d; Not sure, though hoping of this good success, I ask’d his blessing, and from first to last Told him my pilgrimage. But his flaw’d heart, Alack, too weak the conflict to support! ’Twixt two extremes of passion, joy and grief, Burst smilingly.

EDMUND. This speech of yours hath mov’d me, And shall perchance do good, but speak you on; You look as you had something more to say.

ALBANY. If there be more, more woeful, hold it in; For I am almost ready to dissolve, Hearing of this.

EDGAR. This would have seem’d a period To such as love not sorrow; but another, To amplify too much, would make much more, And top extremity. Whilst I was big in clamour, came there a man Who, having seen me in my worst estate, Shunn’d my abhorr’d society; but then finding Who ’twas that so endur’d, with his strong arms He fastened on my neck, and bellow’d out As he’d burst heaven; threw him on my father; Told the most piteous tale of Lear and him That ever ear receiv’d, which in recounting His grief grew puissant, and the strings of life Began to crack. Twice then the trumpets sounded, And there I left him tranc’d.

ALBANY. But who was this?

EDGAR. Kent, sir, the banish’d Kent; who in disguise Follow’d his enemy king and did him service Improper for a slave.

Enter a Gentleman hastily, with a bloody knife.

GENTLEMAN. Help, help! O, help!

EDGAR. What kind of help?

ALBANY. Speak, man.

EDGAR. What means this bloody knife?

GENTLEMAN. ’Tis hot, it smokes; It came even from the heart of—O! she’s dead!

ALBANY. Who dead? Speak, man.

GENTLEMAN. Your lady, sir, your lady; and her sister By her is poisoned; she hath confesses it.

EDMUND. I was contracted to them both, all three Now marry in an instant.

EDGAR. Here comes Kent.

Enter Kent.

ALBANY. Produce their bodies, be they alive or dead. This judgement of the heavens that makes us tremble Touches us not with pity. O, is this he? The time will not allow the compliment Which very manners urges.

KENT. I am come To bid my King and master aye good night: Is he not here?

ALBANY. Great thing of us forgot! Speak, Edmund, where’s the King? and where’s Cordelia?

The bodies of Goneril and Regan are brought in.

Seest thou this object, Kent?

KENT. Alack, why thus?

EDMUND. Yet Edmund was belov’d. The one the other poisoned for my sake, And after slew herself.

ALBANY. Even so. Cover their faces.

EDMUND. I pant for life. Some good I mean to do, Despite of mine own nature. Quickly send, Be brief in it, to the castle; for my writ Is on the life of Lear and on Cordelia; Nay, send in time.

ALBANY. Run, run, O, run!

EDGAR. To who, my lord? Who has the office? Send Thy token of reprieve.

EDMUND. Well thought on: take my sword, Give it the captain.

EDGAR. Haste thee for thy life.

[Exit Edgar.]

EDMUND. He hath commission from thy wife and me To hang Cordelia in the prison, and To lay the blame upon her own despair, That she fordid herself.

ALBANY. The gods defend her! Bear him hence awhile.

[Edmund is borne off.]

Enter Lear with Cordelia dead in his arms; Edgar, Officer and others following.

LEAR. Howl, howl, howl, howl! O, you are men of stone. Had I your tongues and eyes, I’ld use them so That heaven’s vault should crack. She’s gone for ever! I know when one is dead, and when one lives; She’s dead as earth. Lend me a looking glass; If that her breath will mist or stain the stone, Why, then she lives.

KENT. Is this the promis’d end?

EDGAR. Or image of that horror?

ALBANY. Fall, and cease!

LEAR. This feather stirs; she lives! If it be so, It is a chance which does redeem all sorrows That ever I have felt.

KENT. O, my good master! [Kneeling.]

LEAR. Prithee, away!

EDGAR. ’Tis noble Kent, your friend.

LEAR. A plague upon you, murderers, traitors all! I might have sav’d her; now she’s gone for ever! Cordelia, Cordelia! stay a little. Ha! What is’t thou say’st? Her voice was ever soft, Gentle, and low, an excellent thing in woman. I kill’d the slave that was a-hanging thee.

OFFICER. ’Tis true, my lords, he did.

LEAR. Did I not, fellow? I have seen the day, with my good biting falchion I would have made them skip. I am old now, And these same crosses spoil me. Who are you? Mine eyes are not o’ the best, I’ll tell you straight.

KENT. If Fortune brag of two she lov’d and hated, One of them we behold.

LEAR. This is a dull sight. Are you not Kent?

KENT. The same, Your servant Kent. Where is your servant Caius?

LEAR. He’s a good fellow, I can tell you that; He’ll strike, and quickly too:. He’s dead and rotten.

KENT. No, my good lord; I am the very man.

LEAR. I’ll see that straight.

KENT. That from your first of difference and decay Have follow’d your sad steps.

LEAR. You are welcome hither.

KENT. Nor no man else. All’s cheerless, dark and deadly. Your eldest daughters have fordone themselves, And desperately are dead.

LEAR. Ay, so I think.

ALBANY. He knows not what he says; and vain is it That we present us to him.

EDGAR. Very bootless.

Enter an Officer.

OFFICER. Edmund is dead, my lord.

ALBANY. That’s but a trifle here. You lords and noble friends, know our intent. What comfort to this great decay may come Shall be applied. For us, we will resign, During the life of this old majesty, To him our absolute power; [to Edgar and Kent] you to your rights; With boot and such addition as your honours Have more than merited. All friends shall taste The wages of their virtue and all foes The cup of their deservings. O, see, see!

LEAR. And my poor fool is hang’d! No, no, no life! Why should a dog, a horse, a rat have life, And thou no breath at all? Thou’lt come no more, Never, never, never, never, never! Pray you undo this button. Thank you, sir. Do you see this? Look on her: look, her lips, Look there, look there!

[He dies.]

EDGAR. He faints! My lord, my lord!

KENT. Break, heart; I prithee break!

EDGAR. Look up, my lord.

KENT. Vex not his ghost: O, let him pass! He hates him That would upon the rack of this rough world Stretch him out longer.

EDGAR. He is gone indeed.

KENT. The wonder is, he hath endur’d so long: He but usurp’d his life.

ALBANY. Bear them from hence. Our present business Is general woe. [To Edgar and Kent.] Friends of my soul, you twain, Rule in this realm and the gor’d state sustain.

KENT. I have a journey, sir, shortly to go; My master calls me, I must not say no.

EDGAR. The weight of this sad time we must obey; Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say. The oldest hath borne most; we that are young Shall never see so much, nor live so long.

[Exeunt with a dead march.]

LOVE’S LABOUR’S LOST

Dramatis Personæ

KING of Navarre, also known as Ferdinand

BEROWNE, Lord attending on the King LONGAVILLE, Lord attending on the King DUMAINE, Lord attending on the King

The PRINCESS of France

ROSALINE, Lady attending on the Princess MARIA, Lady attending on the Princess KATHARINE, Lady attending on the Princess BOYET, Lord attending on the Princess

Don Adriano de ARMADO, a fantastical Spaniard MOTH, Page to Armado JAQUENETTA, a country wench COSTARD, a Clown DULL, a Constable HOLOFERNES, a Schoolmaster Sir NATHANIEL, a Curate A FORESTER MARCADÉ, a messenger from France

Lords, Blackamoors, Officers and Others, Attendants on the King and Princess.

SCENE: Navarre

Act I, Scene I — The King of Navarre’s park

Enter Ferdinand, King of Navarre, Berowne, Longaville and Dumaine.

KING. Let fame, that all hunt after in their lives, Live registered upon our brazen tombs, And then grace us in the disgrace of death; When, spite of cormorant devouring time, Th’ endeavour of this present breath may buy That honour which shall bate his scythe’s keen edge, And make us heirs of all eternity. Therefore, brave conquerors, for so you are That war against your own affections And the huge army of the world’s desires, Our late edict shall strongly stand in force. Navarre shall be the wonder of the world; Our court shall be a little academe, Still and contemplative in living art. You three, Berowne, Dumaine and Longaville, Have sworn for three years’ term to live with me, My fellow-scholars, and to keep those statutes That are recorded in this schedule here. Your oaths are passed, and now subscribe your names, That his own hand may strike his honour down That violates the smallest branch herein. If you are armed to do as sworn to do, Subscribe to your deep oaths, and keep it too.

LONGAVILLE. I am resolved. ’Tis but a three years’ fast. The mind shall banquet, though the body pine. Fat paunches have lean pates, and dainty bits Make rich the ribs, but bankrupt quite the wits.

[He signs.]

DUMAINE. My loving lord, Dumaine is mortified. The grosser manner of these world’s delights He throws upon the gross world’s baser slaves. To love, to wealth, to pomp, I pine and die, With all these living in philosophy.

[He signs.]

BEROWNE. I can but say their protestation over. So much, dear liege, I have already sworn, That is, to live and study here three years. But there are other strict observances: As not to see a woman in that term, Which I hope well is not enrolled there; And one day in a week to touch no food, And but one meal on every day beside, The which I hope is not enrolled there; And then to sleep but three hours in the night, And not be seen to wink of all the day, When I was wont to think no harm all night, And make a dark night too of half the day, Which I hope well is not enrolled there. O, these are barren tasks, too hard to keep, Not to see ladies, study, fast, not sleep.

KING. Your oath is passed to pass away from these.

BEROWNE. Let me say no, my liege, an if you please. I only swore to study with your Grace And stay here in your court for three years’ space.

LONGAVILLE. You swore to that, Berowne, and to the rest.

BEROWNE. By yea and nay, sir, then I swore in jest. What is the end of study, let me know?

KING. Why, that to know which else we should not know.

BEROWNE. Things hid and barred, you mean, from common sense?

KING. Ay, that is study’s god-like recompense.

BEROWNE. Come on, then, I will swear to study so, To know the thing I am forbid to know: As thus, to study where I well may dine, When I to feast expressly am forbid; Or study where to meet some mistress fine, When mistresses from common sense are hid; Or, having sworn too hard-a-keeping oath, Study to break it, and not break my troth. If study’s gain be thus, and this be so, Study knows that which yet it doth not know. Swear me to this, and I will ne’er say no.

KING. These be the stops that hinder study quite, And train our intellects to vain delight.

BEROWNE. Why, all delights are vain, but that most vain Which, with pain purchased, doth inherit pain: As painfully to pore upon a book To seek the light of truth, while truth the while Doth falsely blind the eyesight of his look. Light seeking light doth light of light beguile; So, ere you find where light in darkness lies, Your light grows dark by losing of your eyes. Study me how to please the eye indeed By fixing it upon a fairer eye, Who dazzling so, that eye shall be his heed, And give him light that it was blinded by. Study is like the heaven’s glorious sun, That will not be deep-searched with saucy looks; Small have continual plodders ever won, Save base authority from others’ books. These earthly godfathers of heaven’s lights, That give a name to every fixed star, Have no more profit of their shining nights Than those that walk and wot not what they are. Too much to know is to know naught but fame, And every godfather can give a name.

KING. How well he’s read, to reason against reading.

DUMAINE. Proceeded well, to stop all good proceeding.

LONGAVILLE. He weeds the corn, and still lets grow the weeding.

BEROWNE. The spring is near when green geese are a-breeding.

DUMAINE. How follows that?

BEROWNE. Fit in his place and time.

DUMAINE. In reason nothing.

BEROWNE. Something then in rhyme.

LONGAVILLE. Berowne is like an envious sneaping frost That bites the first-born infants of the spring.

BEROWNE. Well, say I am. Why should proud summer boast Before the birds have any cause to sing? Why should I joy in any abortive birth? At Christmas I no more desire a rose Than wish a snow in May’s new-fangled shows, But like of each thing that in season grows. So you, to study now it is too late, Climb o’er the house to unlock the little gate.

KING. Well, sit you out. Go home, Berowne. Adieu.

BEROWNE. No, my good lord, I have sworn to stay with you, And though I have for barbarism spoke more Than for that angel knowledge you can say, Yet confident I’ll keep what I have sworn And bide the penance of each three years’ day. Give me the paper, let me read the same, And to the strictest decrees I’ll write my name.

KING. How well this yielding rescues thee from shame.

BEROWNE. [Reads.] Item, That no woman shall come within a mile of my court. Hath this been proclaimed?

LONGAVILLE. Four days ago.

BEROWNE. Let’s see the penalty. [Reads.] On pain of losing her tongue. Who devised this penalty?

LONGAVILLE. Marry, that did I.

BEROWNE. Sweet lord, and why?

LONGAVILLE. To fright them hence with that dread penalty.

BEROWNE. A dangerous law against gentility. [Reads.] _Item, If any man be seen to talk with a woman within the term of three years, he shall endure such public shame as the rest of the court can possibly devise._ This article, my liege, yourself must break, For well you know here comes in embassy The French King’s daughter, with yourself to speak— A mild of grace and complete majesty— About surrender up of Aquitaine To her decrepit, sick, and bedrid father. Therefore this article is made in vain, Or vainly comes th’ admired Princess hither.

KING. What say you, lords? Why, this was quite forgot.

BEROWNE. So study evermore is overshot. While it doth study to have what it would, It doth forget to do the thing it should; And when it hath the thing it hunteth most, ’Tis won as towns with fire: so won, so lost.

KING. We must of force dispense with this decree. She must lie here on mere necessity.

BEROWNE. Necessity will make us all forsworn Three thousand times within this three years’ space; For every man with his affects is born, Not by might mastered, but by special grace. If I break faith, this word shall speak for me: I am forsworn on mere necessity. So to the laws at large I write my name, And he that breaks them in the least degree Stands in attainder of eternal shame. Suggestions are to other as to me; But I believe, although I seem so loath, I am the last that will last keep his oath.

[He signs.]

But is there no quick recreation granted?

KING. Ay, that there is. Our court, you know, is haunted With a refined traveller of Spain, A man in all the world’s new fashion planted, That hath a mint of phrases in his brain; One who the music of his own vain tongue Doth ravish like enchanting harmony, A man of complements, whom right and wrong Have chose as umpire of their mutiny. This child of fancy, that Armado hight, For interim to our studies shall relate In high-born words the worth of many a knight From tawny Spain lost in the world’s debate. How you delight, my lords, I know not, I, But I protest I love to hear him lie, And I will use him for my minstrelsy.

BEROWNE. Armado is a most illustrious wight, A man of fire-new words, fashion’s own knight.

LONGAVILLE. Costard the swain and he shall be our sport, And so to study three years is but short.

Enter Dull, a Constable, with a letter, and Costard.

DULL. Which is the Duke’s own person?

BEROWNE. This, fellow. What wouldst?

DULL. I myself reprehend his own person, for I am his Grace’s farborough. But I would see his own person in flesh and blood.

BEROWNE. This is he.

DULL. Signior Arm… Arm… commends you. There’s villainy abroad. This letter will tell you more.

COSTARD. Sir, the contempts thereof are as touching me.

KING. A letter from the magnificent Armado.

BEROWNE. How long soever the matter, I hope in God for high words.

LONGAVILLE. A high hope for a low heaven. God grant us patience!

BEROWNE. To hear, or forbear laughing?

LONGAVILLE. To hear meekly, sir, and to laugh moderately, or to forbear both.

BEROWNE. Well, sir, be it as the style shall give us cause to climb in the merriness.

COSTARD. The matter is to me, sir, as concerning Jaquenetta. The manner of it is, I was taken with the manner.

BEROWNE. In what manner?

COSTARD. In manner and form following, sir, all those three. I was seen with her in the manor-house, sitting with her upon the form, and taken following her into the park, which, put together, is “in manner and form following”. Now, sir, for the manner. It is the manner of a man to speak to a woman. For the form—in some form.

BEROWNE. For the “following”, sir?

COSTARD. As it shall follow in my correction, and God defend the right!

KING. Will you hear this letter with attention?

BEROWNE. As we would hear an oracle.

COSTARD. Such is the simplicity of man to hearken after the flesh.

KING. [Reads.] _Great deputy, the welkin’s vicegerent and sole dominator of Navarre, my soul’s earth’s god and body’s fostering patron—_

COSTARD. Not a word of Costard yet.

KING. [Reads.] So it is—

COSTARD. It may be so; but if he say it is so, he is, in telling true, but so.

KING. Peace!

COSTARD. Be to me, and every man that dares not fight.

KING. No words!

COSTARD. Of other men’s secrets, I beseech you.

KING. [Reads.] So it is, besieged with sable-coloured melancholy, I did commend the black-oppressing humour to the most wholesome physic of thy health-giving air; and, as I am a gentleman, betook myself to walk. The time when? About the sixth hour, when beasts most graze, birds best peck, and men sit down to that nourishment which is called supper. So much for the time when. Now for the ground which? Which, I mean, I walked upon. It is ycleped thy park. Then for the place, where? Where, I mean, I did encounter that obscene and most preposterous event that draweth from my snow-white pen the ebon-coloured ink, which here thou viewest, beholdest, surveyest, or seest. But to the place where? It standeth north-north-east and by east from the west corner of thy curious-knotted garden. There did I see that low-spirited swain, that base minnow of thy mirth—

COSTARD. Me?

KING. [Reads.] That unlettered small-knowing soul—

COSTARD. Me?

KING. [Reads.] That shallow vassal—

COSTARD. Still me?

KING. [Reads.] Which, as I remember, hight Costard—

COSTARD. O me!

KING. [Reads.] Sorted and consorted, contrary to thy established proclaimed edict and continent canon, which with, O, with—but with this I passion to say wherewith—

COSTARD. With a wench.

KING. [Reads.] With a child of our grandmother Eve, a female; or, for thy more sweet understanding, a woman. Him, I, as my ever-esteemed duty pricks me on, have sent to thee, to receive the meed of punishment, by thy sweet Grace’s officer, Antony Dull, a man of good repute, carriage, bearing, and estimation.

DULL. Me, an’t shall please you; I am Antony Dull.

KING. [Reads.] For Jaquenetta, so is the weaker vessel called which I apprehended with the aforesaid swain, I keep her as a vessel of thy law’s fury, and shall, at the least of thy sweet notice, bring her to trial. Thine, in all compliments of devoted and heartburning heat of duty, Don Adriano de Armado.

BEROWNE. This is not so well as I looked for, but the best that ever I heard.

KING. Ay, the best for the worst. But, sirrah, what say you to this?

COSTARD. Sir, I confess the wench.

KING. Did you hear the proclamation?

COSTARD. I do confess much of the hearing it, but little of the marking of it.

KING. It was proclaimed a year’s imprisonment to be taken with a wench.

COSTARD. I was taken with none, sir. I was taken with a damsel.

KING. Well, it was proclaimed “damsel”.

COSTARD. This was no damsel neither, sir; she was a virgin.

KING. It is so varied too, for it was proclaimed “virgin”.

COSTARD. If it were, I deny her virginity. I was taken with a maid.

KING. This maid will not serve your turn, sir.

COSTARD. This maid will serve my turn, sir.

KING. Sir, I will pronounce your sentence: you shall fast a week with bran and water.

COSTARD. I had rather pray a month with mutton and porridge.

KING. And Don Armado shall be your keeper. My Lord Berowne, see him delivered o’er; And go we, lords, to put in practice that Which each to other hath so strongly sworn.

[Exeunt King, Longaville and Dumaine.]

BEROWNE. I’ll lay my head to any good man’s hat These oaths and laws will prove an idle scorn. Sirrah, come on.

COSTARD. I suffer for the truth, sir; for true it is I was taken with Jaquenetta, and Jaquenetta is a true girl. And therefore welcome the sour cup of prosperity! Affliction may one day smile again, and till then, sit thee down, sorrow.

[Exeunt.]

Act I, Scene II — The park

Enter Armado and Moth, his Page.

ARMADO. Boy, what sign is it when a man of great spirit grows melancholy?

MOTH. A great sign, sir, that he will look sad.

ARMADO. Why, sadness is one and the selfsame thing, dear imp.

MOTH. No, no, O Lord, sir, no.

ARMADO. How canst thou part sadness and melancholy, my tender juvenal?

MOTH. By a familiar demonstration of the working, my tough signior.

ARMADO. Why tough signior? Why tough signior?

MOTH. Why tender juvenal? Why tender juvenal?

ARMADO. I spoke it, tender juvenal, as a congruent epitheton appertaining to thy young days, which we may nominate tender.

MOTH. And I, tough signior, as an appertinent title to your old time, which we may name tough.

ARMADO. Pretty and apt.

MOTH. How mean you, sir? I pretty and my saying apt, or I apt, and my saying pretty?

ARMADO. Thou pretty, because little.

MOTH. Little pretty, because little. Wherefore apt?

ARMADO. And therefore apt, because quick.

MOTH. Speak you this in my praise, master?

ARMADO. In thy condign praise.

MOTH. I will praise an eel with the same praise.

ARMADO. What, that an eel is ingenious?

MOTH. That an eel is quick.

ARMADO. I do say thou art quick in answers. Thou heat’st my blood.

MOTH. I am answered, sir.

ARMADO. I love not to be crossed.

MOTH. [Aside.] He speaks the mere contrary; crosses love not him.

ARMADO. I have promised to study three years with the Duke.

MOTH. You may do it in an hour, sir.

ARMADO. Impossible.

MOTH. How many is one thrice told?

ARMADO. I am ill at reckoning. It fitteth the spirit of a tapster.

MOTH. You are a gentleman and a gamester, sir.

ARMADO. I confess both. They are both the varnish of a complete man.

MOTH. Then I am sure you know how much the gross sum of deuce-ace amounts to.

ARMADO. It doth amount to one more than two.

MOTH. Which the base vulgar do call three.

ARMADO. True.

MOTH. Why, sir, is this such a piece of study? Now here’s three studied ere ye’ll thrice wink. And how easy it is to put “years” to the word “three”, and study three years in two words, the dancing horse will tell you.

ARMADO. A most fine figure!

MOTH. [Aside.] To prove you a cipher.

ARMADO. I will hereupon confess I am in love; and as it is base for a soldier to love, so am I in love with a base wench. If drawing my sword against the humour of affection would deliver me from the reprobate thought of it, I would take desire prisoner, and ransom him to any French courtier for a new-devised curtsy. I think scorn to sigh; methinks I should outswear Cupid. Comfort me, boy. What great men have been in love?

MOTH. Hercules, master.

ARMADO. Most sweet Hercules! More authority, dear boy, name more; and, sweet my child, let them be men of good repute and carriage.

MOTH. Samson, master. He was a man of good carriage, great carriage, for he carried the town gates on his back like a porter, and he was in love.

ARMADO. O well-knit Samson, strong-jointed Samson! I do excel thee in my rapier as much as thou didst me in carrying gates. I am in love too. Who was Samson’s love, my dear Moth?

MOTH. A woman, master.

ARMADO. Of what complexion?

MOTH. Of all the four, or the three, or the two, or one of the four.

ARMADO. Tell me precisely of what complexion.

MOTH. Of the sea-water green, sir.

ARMADO. Is that one of the four complexions?

MOTH. As I have read, sir; and the best of them too.

ARMADO. Green indeed is the colour of lovers. But to have a love of that colour, methinks Samson had small reason for it. He surely affected her for her wit.

MOTH. It was so, sir, for she had a green wit.

ARMADO. My love is most immaculate white and red.

MOTH. Most maculate thoughts, master, are masked under such colours.

ARMADO. Define, define, well-educated infant.

MOTH. My father’s wit and my mother’s tongue assist me!

ARMADO. Sweet invocation of a child, most pretty, and pathetical!

MOTH. If she be made of white and red, Her faults will ne’er be known; For blushing cheeks by faults are bred, And fears by pale white shown. Then if she fear, or be to blame, By this you shall not know, For still her cheeks possess the same Which native she doth owe. A dangerous rhyme, master, against the reason of white and red.

ARMADO. Is there not a ballad, boy, of the King and the Beggar?

MOTH. The world was very guilty of such a ballad some three ages since, but I think now ’tis not to be found; or if it were, it would neither serve for the writing nor the tune.

ARMADO. I will have that subject newly writ o’er, that I may example my digression by some mighty precedent. Boy, I do love that country girl that I took in the park with the rational hind Costard. She deserves well.

MOTH. [Aside.] To be whipped: and yet a better love than my master.

ARMADO. Sing, boy. My spirit grows heavy in love.

MOTH. And that’s great marvel, loving a light wench.

ARMADO. I say, sing.

MOTH. Forbear till this company be past.

Enter Costard the Clown, Dull the Constable and Jaquenetta a Wench.

DULL. Sir, the Duke’s pleasure is that you keep Costard safe; and you must suffer him to take no delight, nor no penance, but he must fast three days a week. For this damsel, I must keep her at the park. She is allowed for the dey-woman. Fare you well.

ARMADO. I do betray myself with blushing.—Maid.

JAQUENETTA. Man.

ARMADO. I will visit thee at the lodge.

JAQUENETTA. That’s hereby.

ARMADO. I know where it is situate.

JAQUENETTA. Lord, how wise you are!

ARMADO. I will tell thee wonders.

JAQUENETTA. With that face?

ARMADO. I love thee.

JAQUENETTA. So I heard you say.

ARMADO. And so, farewell.

JAQUENETTA. Fair weather after you!

DULL. Come, Jaquenetta, away.

[Exeunt Dull and Jaquenetta.]

ARMADO. Villain, thou shalt fast for thy offences ere thou be pardoned.

COSTARD. Well, sir, I hope when I do it I shall do it on a full stomach.

ARMADO. Thou shalt be heavily punished.

COSTARD. I am more bound to you than your fellows, for they are but lightly rewarded.

ARMADO. Take away this villain. Shut him up.

MOTH. Come, you transgressing slave, away!

COSTARD. Let me not be pent up, sir. I will fast being loose.

MOTH. No, sir, that were fast and loose. Thou shalt to prison.

COSTARD. Well, if ever I do see the merry days of desolation that I have seen, some shall see.

MOTH. What shall some see?

COSTARD. Nay, nothing, Master Moth, but what they look upon. It is not for prisoners to be too silent in their words, and therefore I will say nothing. I thank God I have as little patience as another man, and therefore I can be quiet.

[Exeunt Moth and Costard.]

ARMADO. I do affect the very ground, which is base, where her shoe, which is baser, guided by her foot, which is basest, doth tread. I shall be forsworn, which is a great argument of falsehood, if I love. And how can that be true love which is falsely attempted? Love is a familiar; Love is a devil. There is no evil angel but Love. Yet was Samson so tempted, and he had an excellent strength; yet was Solomon so seduced, and he had a very good wit. Cupid’s butt-shaft is too hard for Hercules’ club, and therefore too much odds for a Spaniard’s rapier. The first and second cause will not serve my turn; the passado he respects not, the duello he regards not. His disgrace is to be called boy, but his glory is to subdue men. Adieu, valour; rust, rapier; be still, drum, for your manager is in love. Yea, he loveth. Assist me, some extemporal god of rhyme, for I am sure I shall turn sonnet. Devise, wit; write, pen; for I am for whole volumes in folio.

[Exit.]