King Lear - William Shakespeare (electronic reader txt) 📗

Tom o’ Bedlam.—O,

these eclipses do portend these divisions! fa, sol, la, mi.

 

Edg.

How now, brother Edmund! what serious contemplation are you in?

 

Edm.

I am thinking, brother, of a prediction I read this other day,

what should follow these eclipses.

 

Edg.

Do you busy yourself with that?

 

Edm.

I promise you, the effects he writes of succeed unhappily: as of

unnaturalness between the child and the parent; death, dearth,

dissolutions of ancient amities; divisions in state, menaces and

maledictions against king and nobles; needless diffidences,

banishment of friends, dissipation of cohorts, nuptial breaches,

and I know not what.

 

Edg.

How long have you been a sectary astronomical?

 

Edm.

Come, come! when saw you my father last?

 

Edg.

The night gone by.

 

Edm.

Spake you with him?

 

Edg.

Ay, two hours together.

 

Edm.

Parted you in good terms? Found you no displeasure in him by word

or countenance?

 

Edg.

None at all.

 

Edm.

Bethink yourself wherein you may have offended him: and at my

entreaty forbear his presence until some little time hath

qualified the heat of his displeasure; which at this instant so

rageth in him that with the mischief of your person it would

scarcely allay.

 

Edg.

Some villain hath done me wrong.

 

Edm.

That’s my fear. I pray you have a continent forbearance till the

speed of his rage goes slower; and, as I say, retire with me to

my lodging, from whence I will fitly bring you to hear my lord

speak: pray you, go; there’s my key.—If you do stir abroad, go

armed.

 

Edg.

Armed, brother!

 

Edm.

Brother, I advise you to the best; I am no honest man

if there be any good meaning toward you: I have told you what I

have seen and heard but faintly; nothing like the image and

horror of it: pray you, away!

 

Edg.

Shall I hear from you anon?

 

Edm.

I do serve you in this business.

 

[Exit Edgar.]

 

A credulous father! and a brother noble,

Whose nature is so far from doing harms

That he suspects none; on whose foolish honesty

My practices ride easy!—I see the business.

Let me, if not by birth, have lands by wit:

All with me’s meet that I can fashion fit.

 

[Exit.]

 

Scene III. A Room in the Duke of Albany’s Palace.

 

[Enter Goneril and Oswald.]

 

Gon.

Did my father strike my gentleman for chiding of his fool?

 

Osw. Ay, madam.

 

Gon.

By day and night, he wrongs me; every hour

He flashes into one gross crime or other,

That sets us all at odds; I’ll not endure it:

His knights grow riotous, and himself upbraids us

On every trifle.—When he returns from hunting,

I will not speak with him; say I am sick.—

If you come slack of former services,

You shall do well; the fault of it I’ll answer.

 

Osw.

He’s coming, madam; I hear him.

 

[Horns within.]

 

Gon.

Put on what weary negligence you please,

You and your fellows; I’d have it come to question:

If he distaste it, let him to our sister,

Whose mind and mine, I know, in that are one,

Not to be overruled. Idle old man,

That still would manage those authorities

That he hath given away!—Now, by my life,

Old fools are babes again; and must be us’d

With checks as flatteries,—when they are seen abus’d.

Remember what I have said.

 

Osw.

Very well, madam.

 

Gon.

And let his knights have colder looks among you;

What grows of it, no matter; advise your fellows so;

I would breed from hence occasions, and I shall,

That I may speak.—I’ll write straight to my sister

To hold my very course.—Prepare for dinner.

 

[Exeunt.]

 

Scene IV. A Hall in Albany’s Palace.

 

[Enter Kent, disguised.]

 

Kent.

If but as well I other accents borrow,

That can my speech defuse, my good intent

May carry through itself to that full issue

For which I rais’d my likeness.—Now, banish’d Kent,

If thou canst 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 King Lear, Knights, and Attendants.]

 

Lear.

Let me not stay a jot for dinner; go get it ready.

 

[Exit an Attendant.]

 

How now! what art thou?

 

Kent.

A man, sir.

 

Lear.

What dost thou profess? What wouldst 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 him that is wise and says little; to fear judgment; to fight

when I cannot choose; and to eat no fish.

 

Lear.

What art thou?

 

Kent.

A very honest-hearted fellow, and as poor as the king.

 

Lear.

If thou be’st as poor for a subject as he’s for a king, thou art

poor enough. What wouldst thou?

 

Kent.

Service.

 

Lear.

Who wouldst 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 counsel, ride, run, mar a curious tale in

telling it and deliver a plain message bluntly. That which

ordinary men are fit for, I am qualified 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

dote on her for anything: 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.

 

[Exit an attendant.]

 

[Enter Oswald.]

 

You, you, sirrah, where’s my daughter?

 

Osw.

So please you,—

 

[Exit.]

 

Lear.

What says the fellow there? Call the clotpoll back.—

 

[Exit a Knight.]

 

Where’s my fool, ho?—I think the world’s asleep.

 

[Re-enter Knight.]

 

How now! where’s that mongrel?

 

Knight.

He says, my lord, your daughter is not well.

 

Lear.

Why came not the slave back to me when I called him?

 

Knight.

Sir, he answered 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 entertained 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 wronged.

 

Lear.

Thou but rememberest me of mine own conception: I have perceived

a most faint neglect of late; which I have rather blamed as mine

own jealous curiosity than as a very pretence and purpose of

unkindness: I will look further into’t.—But where’s my fool? I

have not seen him this 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.—

 

[Exit Attendant.]

 

Go you, call hither my fool.

 

[Exit another Attendant.]

 

[Re-enter Oswald.]

 

O, you, sir, you, come you hither, sir: who am I, sir?

 

Osw.

My lady’s father.

 

Lear.

My lady’s father! my lord’s knave: you whoreson dog! you slave!

you cur!

 

Osw.

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

 

Lear.

Do you bandy looks with me, you rascal?

[Striking him.]

 

Osw.

I’ll not be struck, my lord.

 

Kent.

Nor tripp’d neither, you base football player.

[Tripping up his heels.]

 

Lear.

I thank thee, fellow; thou servest 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; but away!

go to; have you wisdom? so.

[Pushes Oswald out.]

 

Lear.

Now, my friendly knave, I thank thee: there’s earnest of thy

service.

[Giving Kent money.]

 

[Enter Fool.]

 

Fool. Let me hire him too; here’s my coxcomb.

[Giving Kent his cap.]

 

Lear.

How now, my pretty knave! how dost thou?

 

Fool.

Sirrah, you were best take my coxcomb.

 

Kent.

Why, fool?

 

Fool.

Why, for taking one’s part that’s out of favour. Nay, an thou

canst not smile as the wind sits, thou’lt catch cold shortly:

there, take my coxcomb: why, this fellow hath banish’d two on’s

daughters, and did the third a blessing against his will; if

thou follow him, thou must needs wear my coxcomb.—How now,

nuncle! Would I had two coxcombs and two daughters!

 

Lear.

Why, my boy?

 

Fool.

If I gave them all my living, I’d keep my coxcombs myself.

There’s mine; beg another of thy daughters.

 

Lear.

Take heed, sirrah,—the whip.

 

Fool.

Truth’s a dog must to kennel; he must be whipped out, when

the lady brach may stand by the fire and stink.

 

Lear.

A pestilent gall to me!

 

Fool.

Sirrah, I’ll teach thee a speech.

 

Lear.

Do.

 

Fool.

Mark it, nuncle:—

Have more than thou showest,

Speak less than thou knowest,

Lend less than thou owest,

Ride more than thou goest,

Learn more than thou trowest,

Set less than thou throwest;

Leave thy drink and thy whore,

And keep in-a-door,

And thou shalt have more

Than two tens to a score.

 

Kent.

This is nothing, fool.

 

Fool.

Then ‘tis like the breath of an unfee’d lawyer,—you gave me

nothing for’t.—Can you make no use of nothing, nuncle?

 

Lear.

Why, no, boy; nothing can be made out of nothing.

 

Fool.

[to Kent] Pr’ythee tell him, so much the rent of his land

comes to: he will not believe a fool.

 

Lear.

A bitter fool!

 

Fool.

Dost thou know the difference, my boy, between a bitter fool and

a sweet one?

 

Lear.

No, lad; teach me.

 

Fool.

That lord that counsell’d thee

To give away thy land,

Come place him here by me,—

Do thou for him stand:

The sweet and bitter fool

Will presently appear;

The one in motley here,

The other found out there.

 

Lear.

Dost thou call me fool, boy?

 

Fool.

All thy other titles thou hast given away; that thou wast born

with.

 

Kent.

This is not altogether fool, my lord.

 

Fool.

No, faith; lords and great men will not let me: if I had a

monopoly out, they would have part on’t and loads too: they

will not let me have all the fool to myself; they’ll be

snatching.—Nuncle, give me an egg, and I’ll give thee two

crowns.

 

Lear.

What two crowns shall they be?

 

Fool.

Why, after I have cut the egg i’ the middle and eat up the

meat, the two crowns of the egg. When thou clovest thy crown i’

the middle and gav’st away both parts, thou borest thine ass on

thy back o’er the dirt: thou hadst little wit in thy bald crown

when thou gavest thy golden one away. If I speak like myself in

this, let him be whipped that first finds it so.

[Singing.]

Fools had ne’er less grace in a year;

For wise men are grown foppish,

And know not how their wits to wear,

Their manners are so