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Know that we have divided

in three our kingdom:

and 'tis our fast intent

to shake all cares and business from our age;

conferring them on younger strengths,

while we unburdened, crawl toward death.

Our son of Cornwall,

and you, our no less loving son of Albany,

we have this hour

a constant will to publish

our daughters' several dowers,

that future strife may be prevented now.

The princes, France and Burgundy,

great rivals in our youngest daughter's love,

here are to be answer'd.

Tell me, my daughters,

which of you shall we say doth love us most?

Goneril, our eldest-born,

speak first.

Sir, I love you more than word can wield the matter;

dearer than eye-sight, space, or liberty;

beyond what can be valued, rich or rare;

no less than life,

with grace, health, beauty, honour;

as much as child e'er loved, or father found;

a love that makes breath poor, and speech unable;

beyond all manner of so much I love you.

Of all these bounds, even from this line to this,

we make thee lady:

to thine and Albany's issues

be this perpetual.

What says our second daughter,

our dearest Regan, wife of Cornwall?

Speak.

I am made of that self-metal as my sister,

and prize me at her worth.

In my true heart I find she names my very deed of love;

only she comes too short:

that I profess myself an enemy to all other joys,

which the most precious square of sense possesses;

and find I am alone felicitate in your dear highness' love.

To thee and thine hereditary ever

remain this ample third of our fair kingdom;

no less in space, validity, and pleasure,

than that conferr'd on Goneril.

Now, our joy,

although our last, and least;

to whose young love the vines of France and milk of Burgundy

strive to be interess'd;

what can you say to draw a third more opulent than your sisters?

Speak.

Nothing, my lord.

Nothing?

Nothing.

Nothing will come of nothing;

speak again.

I love your majesty according to my bond;

no more nor less.

But goes thy heart with this?

Ay, my good lord.

- So young, and so untender? - So young, my lord,

- and true. - Let it be so;

thy truth, then, be thy dower:

for, by the sacred radiance of the sun, the mysteries of Hecate, and the night;

by all the operation of the orbs from whom we do exist, and cease to be;

here I disclaim all my paternal care,

and as a stranger to my heart and me hold thee, from this, for ever.

Royal Lear...

Come not between the dragon and his wrath.

Cornwall and Albany,

with my two daughters' dowers digest the third.

I do invest you jointly with my power,

pre-eminence, and all the large effects that troop with majesty.

Ourself, by monthly course,

with reservation of an hundred knights,

by you to be sustain'd, shall our abode

make with you by due turn.

Only we shall retain the name,

and all the addition to a king;

the sway, revenue, execution of the rest,

beloved sons, be yours.

Lear is mad!

What wouldst thou do, old man?

Thy youngest daughter does not love thee least.

The bow is bent and drawn;

make from the shaft.

Let it fall.

Kent, on thy life, no more.

My life I never held but as a pawn to wage against thine enemies.

Out of my sight!

- See better, Lear. - Now, by Apollo...

Now, by Apollo, king, I'll tell thee thou dost evil.

Take thy reward.

Turn thy hated back upon our kingdom:

if thy banish'd trunk be found in our dominion,

the moment is thy death.

Better thou hadst not been born than not to have pleased me better.

Be it lawful I take up what's cast away.

Thee and thy virtues here I seize upon.

Thy dowerless daughter, king, is queen of France.

Thou hast her, France; let her be thine;

for we have no such daughter,

nor shall ever see that face of hers again.

I think our father will away tonight.

That's most certain, and with you;

next month with us.

You see how full of changes his age is;

he always loved our sister most;

and with what poor judgement he hath now cast her off.

'Tis the infirmity of his age:

yet he hath ever but slenderly known himself.

We shall further think on it.

We must do something,

and i' the heat.

These late eclipses in the sun and moon portend no good to us:

in cities, mutinies;

in countries, discord;

in palaces, treason;

and the bond cracked between child and father.

We have seen the best of our time:

machinations, hollowness, treachery, and all ruinous disorders,

follow us disquietly to our graves.

And the noble and true-hearted Kent banished!

'Tis strange.

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 judgement;

to fight when I cannot choose;

and to eat no fish.

'Tis politic and safe to let him keep at point a hundred knights:

yes, that on every dream,

each buzz, each fancy, each complaint, dislike,

he may enguard his dotage with their powers,

- and hold our lives in mercy. - Well, you may fear too far.

Safer than trust too far.

No, no, my lord,

this milky gentleness of yours shows want of wisdom.

Striving to better, oft we mar what's well.

Nay, then...

Well, well; the event.

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

Ay, madam.

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 short of former services,

you shall do well; the fault of it I'll answer.

Put on what weary negligence you please, you and your fellows;

I'll have it come to question: If he distaste it, let him to my sister.

Idle old man,

that still would manage those authorities that he hath given away.

Old fools are babes again.

Let me not stay a jot for dinner;

go get it ready.

What art thou?

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

If thou be'st as poor for a subject as he is for a king,

thou art poor enough.

- What wouldst thou? - Service.

- Who wouldst thou serve? - You.

- Dost thou know me, fellow? - No, sir;

but you have that in your countenance which I would fain call master.

- What's that? - Authority.

Follow me; thou shalt serve me:

if I like thee no worse after dinner, I'll not part from thee yet.

Let his knights have colder looks among you;

what grows of it, no matter.

Dinner!

Ho, dinner!

Where's my knave? My fool?

Here, go you, and call my fool hither.

O you, sirrah, you,

where's my daughter?

Go call the clotpoll back.

- Hey, you! - Hey, sir!

Where is my fool?

I think the world's asleep.

Where's that mongrel?

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

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

- He answered me, he would not. - Would not!

To my judgement, your highness is not entertained

with the same ceremonious affection as you were wont.

Go you, and tell my daughter I'd speak with her.

And go you, call hither my fool.

O you,

you sir, come you hither, sir:

who am I, sir?

- My lady's father. - ''My lady's father''!

You whoreson dog!

You slave! You cur!

I'll not be struck, my lord!

Nor tripped neither, you base football player.

I'll teach thee a speech.

Do.

This is nothing, fool.

Can you make no use of nothing, nuncle?

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

Give me an egg, and I'll give thee two crowns.

What two crowns shall they be?

Why, after I have cut the egg in the middle,

and eat up the meat,

the two crowns of the egg.

Thou hadst little wit in thy bald crown, when thou gavest thy golden one away.

I prithee, nuncle, keep a schoolmaster that can teach thy fool to lie:

I would fain learn to lie.

And you lie, sirrah, we'll have you whipped.

I marvel what kin thou and thy daughters are:

they'll have me whipped for speaking true, for lying,

and sometimes for holding my peace.

I'd rather be any kind of a thing than a fool:

yet I would not be thee, nuncle;

for thou hast pared thy wits o' both sides, and left nothing in the middle.

Mum, mum

He that keeps nor crust nor crum

Weary of all, shall want some

When were you wont to be so full of songs, sirrah?

Ever since thou madest thy daughters thy mothers:

for when thou gavest them the rod, and pulled down thine own breeches.

Then they for sudden joy did weep

And I for sorrow sung

That such a king should play bo-peep

And go the fools among

Nay,

an thou canst not smile as the wind sits,

thou'It catch cold shortly.

Yes, forsooth, I will hold my tongue;

so your face bids me, so I'll say nothing.

How now, daughter.

You are too much of late i' the frown.

Not only, sir, this your all-licensed fool,

but other of your insolent retinue do hourly carp and quarrel;

breaking forth in rank and not-to-be-endured riots.

I had thought, by making this well known unto you, to have found a safe redress;

but now grow fearful by what yourself too late have spoke and done.

That you protect this course, and put it on by your allowance;

which if you should, the fault would not 'scape censure,

nor the redresses sleep.

For you know, nuncle, the hedge-sparrow fed the cuckoo so long,

it had its head bit off by its young.

So, out went the candle, and we were left darkling.

Are you our daughter?

I would you would make use of your good wisdom,

whereof I know you are fraught; and put away these dispositions,

which of late transport you from what you rightly are.

May not an ass know when the cart draws the horse? Whoop, Jug! I love thee.

Does any here know me?

This is not Lear:

does Lear walk thus?

Speak thus?

Where are his eyes?

Ha! Waking? 'Tis not so.

Who is it who can tell me who I am?

Lear's shadow.

I would learn that.

Your name, fair gentlewoman?

This admiration, sir, is much of the savour of other your new pranks.

I do beseech you understand my purposes aright:

as you are old and reverend, should be wise.

Here do you keep a hundred knights and squires;

as men so disorder'd, so debauched and bold,

that this our court, infected with their manners, shows like a riotous inn:

epicurism and lust makes it more like a tavern or a brothel than a graced palace.

The shame itself doth call for instant remedy:

be then advis'd by her, that else will take the thing she begs,

a little to disquantity your train;

and the remainders, that shall still depend,

to be such men as may besort your age,

who know themselves and you.

Darkness and devils!

Saddle my horses; call my train together:

degenerate bastard!

Yet have I left a daughter.

Detested kite! Thou liest!

My train are men of choice and rarest parts,

that all particulars of duty know, and in the most exact regard

support the worships of their name!

Oh, Lear, Lear, Lear.

Beat at this gate, that let thy folly in,

and thy dear judgement out!

My lord, I am guiltless,

as I am ignorant of what hath moved you.

It may be so, my lord.

Hear, nature;

hear, dear goddess, hear.

Suspend thy purpose,

if thou didst intend to make this creature fruitful.

Into her womb convey sterility.

Dry up in her the organs of increase;

and from her derogate body never spring a babe to honour her.

If she must teem, create her child of spleen;

that it may live, and be a thwart disnatured torment to her.

Let it stamp wrinkles in her brow of youth;

with cadent tears fret channels in her cheeks;

turn all her mother's pains and benefits to laughter and contempt,

that she may feel how sharper than a serpent's tooth it is

to have a thankless child!

Are my horses ready?

Your asses are gone about them.

- Have you writ that letter to my sister? - Ay, madam.

Inform her full of my particular fear. Get you gone.

I cannot be so partial, Goneril,

- to the great love I bear you... - I pray you, content.

Shalt see thy other daughter will use thee kindly;

for although she's as like this as a crab's like an apple,

yet I can tell what I can tell.

What canst tell, boy?

That she will taste as like this as a crab does to a crab.

Canst tell why one's nose stands in the middle of one's face?

No.

Why, to keep one's eyes on either side of one's nose;

that what a man cannot smell out, he may spy into.

I did her wrong...

Canst tell how an oyster makes his shell?

- No. - Nor I neither;

but I can tell why a snail has a house.

Why?

Why, to put his head in; not to give it away to his daughters.

I will forget my nature.

So kind a father.

The reason why the seven stars are no more than seven

is a pretty reason.

Because they are not eight?

Yes, indeed; thou wouldst make a good fool.

To take it again perforce.

Monster ingratitude.

If thou wert my fool, nuncle,

I'd have thee beaten for being old before thy time.

How's that?

Thou shouldst not have been old till thou hadst been wise.

O, let me not be mad,

not mad, sweet heaven.

Keep me in temper:

I would not be mad.

How now, brother Edmund. What serious contemplation are you in?

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

what should follow these eclipses.

Do you busy yourself with that?

I promise you, the effects he writes of succeed unhappily;

as of unnaturalness between the child and the parent;

death, dearth, dissolutions, divisions, menaces.

When we are sick in fortune, we make guilty of our disasters

the sun, the moon, the stars:

as if we were drunkards, liars, and adulterers by planetary influence.

Why brand they me with baseness? Bastardy? Base?

The father coupled with my mother under the dragon's tail;

and I was born under Ursa Major;

so that it follows that I am rough and lecherous.

I should have been that I am,

had the maidenliest star in the firmament twinkled on my bastardising.

When sons are at perfect age, and fathers in decline,

the father should be put in care of the son.

And the son manage the revenue.

It's the policy of reverence for age that makes the world bitter.

The Duke of Cornwall and Regan his duchess will be here this night.

- How comes that? - I know not.

The better. Best.

This weaves itself perforce into my business.

Briefness and fortune, work.

If this letter thrive, Edmund the bastard shall top the legitimate.

Legitimate Edgar, I must have your land.

Now, gods, stand up for bastards.

Father!

I swore he could by no means.

By no means what?

Persuade me to the murder of your lordship;

I told him, the revenging gods ' gainst parricides

did all their thunder bend;

spoke with how strong a bond the child was bound to the father.

My son Edgar.

I threaten'd to discover him:

he replied,

''Who would put any trust or faith in thee, thou unpossessing bastard?''

He cannot be such a monster...

To his father, that so tenderly and entirely loves him.

I dare pawn down my life for him,

he's done this to feel my affection to your honour, and no other pretence of danger.

Think you so?

Has he never before sounded you in this matter?

I have heard him maintain it to be fit,

that sons at perfect age, and fathers in decline,

the father should be put in care of the son, and the son manage the revenue.

Villain, villain. Unnatural, brutish villain.

If your honour judge it meet,

I'll place you where you shall hear us confer of this.

Edgar, when saw you my father last?

Parted you on good terms?

Saw you no displeasure in him?

Bethink yourself wherein you may have offended him.

What does it say?

''If our father would sleep till I waked him,

you should enjoy half his revenue for ever,

and live the beloved of your brother.

Edgar.''

Help! Murder!

- When came you to this? - Help!

I found it thrown in at the casement of my closet.

- Some villain hath done me wrong. - That's my fear.

Have you not spoken 'gainst the Duke of Cornwall?

He's coming hither: now, i' the night, in haste, and Regan with him:

have you nothing said 'gainst the Duke of Albany?

Not a word.

Help!

I've told you what I've seen and heard; but faintly,

nothing like the image and horror of it.

Pardon me:

in cunning...

Seem to defend yourself.

Quit you well!

Light, ho, here!

Stop, stop!

Torches, torches!

Where is the villain?

There stood he in the dark, sir, his sharp sword out.

Pursue him!

Go after, ho!

There!

Loyal and natural boy,

of all my lands, I'll work the means to make thee heritor.

Open up!

Hey!

Hey!

Your daughter Regan and the duke are gone.

'Tis strange that they should so depart from home.

As I learn'd, the night before there was no purpose in them of this remove.

'Tis said they make toward Gloucester.

Go you before to Gloucester with these letters.

Acquaint my daughter no further with any thing you know.

If your diligence be not speedy, I shall be there before you.

Did my father's godson seek your life?

O, madam, my old heart is crack'd.

'Tis too bad, too bad.

I hear that you have shown your father a child-like office.

It was my duty, sir.

While I can 'scape, I will preserve myself.

My face

I'll grime with filth,

like to a Bedlam beggar.

Poor Tom!

Who gives any thing to poor Tom?

Do poor Tom some charity!

Poor Tom!

Edgar...

I...

nothing am.

Edgar I nothing am!

Ho!

Art of this house?

- Ay. - Where may I set my horse?

I' the mire.

Prithee, if thou lovest me, tell me.

I love thee not.

Why dost thou use me thus? I know thee not.

Fellow, I know thee.

What dost thou know me for?

A knave, beggar, coward, pander,

and the son and heir of a mongrel bitch.

Away! I have nothing to do with thee.

You come with letters against the king;

and take the puppet's part against the royalty of her father!

You brazen-faced varlet!

I'll flesh ye! You wagtail!

You whoreson cullionly barber-monger!

I'll flay you!

A plague upon your epileptic visage!

Peace, sirrah! Know you no reverence?

Yes, sir; but anger hath a privilege.

Why art thou angry?

My lord, if you will give me leave,

I will tread this unbolted villain into mortar,

and daub the wall of a jakes with him!

What is his fault?

His countenance likes me not.

No more, perchance, does mine, nor his, nor hers.

I have seen better faces in my time.

This is some fellow who, having been praised for bluntness,

doth affect a saucy roughness:

he cannot flatter, he, an honest mind and plain, he must speak truth.

I know, sir, I am no flatterer.

I serve the king.

Fetch forth the stocks.

As I have life and honour, there shall he sit till noon.

Till noon?

Till night, my lord, and all night too.

Madam, if I were your father's dog, you should not use me so!

Sir, being his knave, I will.

Let me beseech your grace not to do so:

the king must take it ill.

I'll answer that.

My sister may receive it much more worse, to have her gentleman abused,

assaulted for following her affairs.

Put in his legs.

I am sorry for thee, friend.

'Twill be ill taken.

- I'll entreat for thee. - Pray, do not, sir:

I've travel'd hard; some time I will sleep out, the rest I'll whistle.

Fortune, good night:

smile once more:

turn thy wheel.

Ha, ha!

He wears cruel garters.

What's he that hath so much thy place mistook to set thee here?

It is both he and she; your son and daughter.

- No. - Yes.

- No, I say. - I say, yea.

- No, no, they would not. - Yes, yes, they have.

They durst not do it.

Winter's not gone yet, till the wild-geese fly that way.

O, how this mother swells up toward my heart.

Hysterica passio,

down,

thou climbing sorrow,

thy element's below.

- Where is this daughter? - With the earl, sir,

- here within. - Follow me not;

stay here.

How chance the king comes with so small a number?

And thou hadst been set in the stocks for that question, thou hadst well deserved it.

We'll set thee to school to an ant, to teach thee there's no labouring i' the winter.

All that follow their nose are led by their eyes but blind men;

and there's not one nose among twenty but can smell him that's stinking.

Let go thy hold when a great wheel runs down the hill,

lest it break thy neck with following it:

but the great one that goes upward, let him draw thee after.

When a wise man gives thee better counsel, give me mine again:

I would have none but knaves follow it, since a fool gives it.

That sir

Which serves and seeks for gain

And follows but for form

Will pack when it begins to rain

And leave thee in the storm

Where learned you this, fool?

Not i' the stocks, fool.

Deny to speak with me?

They are sick? They are weary? They have travel'd all the night?

Fetch me a better answer.

My dear lord, you know the fiery quality of the duke.

Fiery? What quality?

Why, Gloucester, Gloucester, I'd speak with the Duke of Cornwall and his wife.

Well, my good lord, I have inform'd them so.

Inform'd them!

- Dost thou understand me, man? - Ay, my good lord.

The king would speak with Cornwall;

the dear father would with his daughter speak, commands her service:

are they inform'd of this?

My breath and blood!

Fiery? The fiery duke?

Tell the hot duke that...

No, but not yet:

may be he is not well.

Death on my states!

Wherefore should he sit here?

Give me my servant forth!

Tell the duke and his wife I'd speak with them!

Now, presently:

bid them come forth and hear me,

or at their chamber-door I'll beat the drum till it cry sleep to death.

I would have all well between you.

O me, my heart,

my rising heart. But, down.

- Good morrow to you both. - Hail to your grace.

I am glad to see your highness.

Regan, I think you are;

I have good reason to think so.

Are you free?

Some other time for that.

Beloved Regan, thy sister is nought:

O Regan, she hath tied sharp-tooth'd unkindness, like a vulture, here:

I can scarce speak to thee;

thou'It not believe with how depraved a quality she...

O Regan!

I cannot think my sister in the least would fail her obligation:

if, sir, perchance she has restrain'd the riots of your followers,

'tis on such ground, and to such wholesome end, as clears her from all blame.

- My curses on her. - Sir, you are old.

Nature in you stands on the very verge of his confine:

you should be ruled and led by some discretion,

that discerns your state better than you yourself.

Therefore, I pray you that to our sister you do make return;

say you have wrong'd her.

Ask her forgiveness?

Do you but mark how this becomes the house:

''Dear daughter, I confess that I'm old; age is unnecessary.

On my knees I beg that you'll vouchsafe me raiment, bed, and food.''

Good sir, no more; these are unsightly tricks:

- return you to my sister. - Never, Regan:

all the stored vengeances of heaven fall on her!

Blest gods! So will you wish on me, when the rash mood is on.

No, Regan, thou shalt never have my curse:

thy tender-hearted nature shall not give thee o'er to harshness:

her eyes are fierce, but thine

do comfort, not burn.

'Tis not in thee to grudge my pleasures,

to cut off my train,

to bandy hasty words,

to oppose the bolt against my coming in.

Thy half of the kingdom thou hast not forgot, wherein I thee endow'd.

O heavens,

if you do love old men,

if your sweet sway allow obedience,

if you yourselves are old,

make it your cause;

send down, and take my part.

Art not ashamed to look upon this beard?

O Regan, will you take her by the hand?

And why not by the hand, sir? How have I offended?

All's not offence that indiscretion finds and dotage terms so.

O sides, you are too tough; will you yet hold?

How came my man in the stocks?

- I set him there, sir. - You! Did you?

I pray you, father, being weak, seem so.

If, till the expiration of your month,

you will return and sojourn with my sister,

dismissing half your train, come then to me:

I am now from home, and out of that provision

which shall be needful for your entertainment.

Return to her, and fifty men dismiss'd?

No, rather I abjure all roofs,

and choose to wage against the enmity of the air;

to be a comrade with the wolf and owl...

Necessity's sharp pinch!

At your choice, sir.

I prithee, daughter, do not make me mad:

I will not trouble thee, my child;

farewell:

we'll no more meet, no more see one another:

but yet thou art my flesh, my blood, my daughter;

or rather a disease that's in my flesh, which I must needs call mine:

thou art a boil, a plague-sore, or embossed carbuncle,

in my corrupted blood!

But I'll not chide thee;

let shame come when it will,

I do not call it:

I do not bid the thunder-bearer shoot,

nor tell tales of thee to high-judging Jove:

mend when thou canst; be better at thy leisure:

I can be patient; I can stay with Regan,

I and my hundred knights.

Why might not you, my lord, receive attendance

from those that she calls servants or from mine?

Why not, my lord?

If then they chanced to slack you, we could control them.

If you will come to me...

For now I spy a danger... I entreat you to bring but five and twenty:

to no more will I give place or notice.

I gave you all...

And in good time you gave it.

Made you my guardians, my depositories;

but kept a reservation to be follow'd with such a number!

What, must I come to you with five and twenty, Regan?

Said you so?

And speak't again, my lord; no more with me.

Those wicked creatures yet do look well-favour'd,

when others are more wicked:

not being the worst stands in some rank of praise.

I'll go with thee:

thy fifty yet doth double five and twenty,

and thou art twice her love.

Hear me, my lord;

what need you five and twenty, ten, or five,

to follow in a house where twice so many have a command to tend you?

What need one?

O, reason not the need!

Our basest beggars are in the poorest thing superfluous:

allow not nature more than nature needs,

man's life's as cheap as beast's:

thou art a lady;

if only to go warm were gorgeous,

why, nature needs not what thou gorgeous wear'st,

which scarcely keeps thee warm.

But, for true need...

O heavens, give me patience,

patience I need.

You see me here, you gods, a poor old man,

as full of grief as age;

wretched in both!

If it be you that stirs these daughters' hearts against their father,

fool me not so much to bear it tamely;

touch me with noble anger,

and let not women's weapons, water-drops, stain my man's cheeks!

No, you unnatural hags!

I will have such revenges on you both,

that all the world shall...

I will do such things...

What they are, yet I know not:

but they shall be the terrors of the earth!

You think I'll weep.

No, I'll not weep;

I have full cause of weeping;

but this heart shall break into a hundred thousand flaws,

or ere I'll weep.

O fool,

I shall go mad.

This house is little:

the old man and his people cannot be well bestow'd.

'Tis his own blame;

hath put himself from rest, and needs must taste his folly.

For his particular, I'll receive him gladly, but not one follower.

So am I purposed.

Where's my lord of Gloucester?

The king is in high rage.

To wilful men, the injuries that they themselves procure

must be their schoolmasters.

Shut up your doors: he is attended with a desperate train.

Shut up your doors, my lord.

Nuncle Lear, nuncle Lear, tarry and take the fool with thee!

Blow, winds!

And crack your cheeks!

Rage!

Blow!

You cataracts and hurricanoes,

spout till you have drench'd our steeples,

drown'd the cocks!

You sulphurous and thought-executing fires,

vaunt-couriers of oak-cleaving thunderbolts,

singe my white head!

And thou, all-shaking thunder,

strike flat the thick rotundity of the world.

Crack nature's moulds, all germens spill at once,

that make ingrateful man!

O nuncle, court holy-water in a dry house is better than this rain-water out o' doors.

Good nuncle, in, ask thy daughters' blessing:

here's a night pities neither wise men nor fools.

Rumble thy bellyful!

Spit, fire!

Spout, rain!

Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my daughters:

I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness;

I never gave you kingdom, call'd you children,

you owe me no subscription:

then let fall your horrible pleasure:

here I stand, your slave,

a poor, infirm, weak, and despised old man:

but yet I call you servile ministers,

that will with two pernicious daughters join'd your high engender'd battles

'gainst a head so old and white as this.

O! 'Tis foul!

He who has a house to put his head in has a good head-piece.

No, I will be the pattern of all patience;

I will say nothing.

Who's there?

A wise man and a fool.

Let the great gods, that keep this dreadful pother o'er our heads,

find out their enemies now.

Tremble, thou wretch, that hast within thee undivulged crimes, unwhipp'd of justice:

caitiff, to pieces shake, that under covert and convenient seeming

hast practised on man's life:

close pent-up guilts, rive your concealing continents,

and cry these dreadful summoners grace.

I am a man more sinn'd against than sinning.

Gracious my lord, hard by here is a hovel;

some friendship will it lend you 'gainst the tempest.

My wits begin to turn.

Come on, my boy:

How dost thou, boy? Art cold?

I'm cold myself. Where is this straw, my fellow?

The art of our necessities is strange,

and can make vile things precious.

Come, your hovel.

Poor fool and knave,

I have one part in my heart that's sorry yet for thee.

He that has and a little tiny wit

With hey, ho, the wind and the rain

Must make content with his fortunes fit

For the rain it raineth every day

My lord. Good my lord, enter.

Thou think'st 'tis much that this contentious storm invades us to the skin:

so 'tis to thee;

but where the greater malady is fix'd, the lesser is scarce felt.

Thou'ldst shun a bear;

but if thy flight lay toward the roaring sea,

thou'ldst meet the bear i' the mouth.

When the mind's free,

the body is delicate:

this tempest in my mind

doth from my senses take all feeling else save what beats there.

Filial ingratitude!

But I will punish home: no, I'll weep no more.

In such a night to shut me out!

Pour on;

I will endure!

Nay, get thee in.

I'll pray,

and then I'll sleep.

Poor naked wretches,

whereso'er you are,

that bide the pelting of this pitiless storm,

how shall your houseless heads and unfed sides,

your loop'd and window'd raggedness,

defend you from seasons such as these?

O, I have ta'en too little care of this!

Take physic, pomp;

expose thyself to feel what wretches feel,

that thou may take the superflux to them,

and show the heavens more just.

Go to thy bed, and warm thee.

Did'st thou give all to thy daughters? And art come to this?

Who gives any thing to poor Tom?

Go you and talk to the duke.

If he asks for me, I am ill, and gone to bed.

If I die for it, as no less is threatened me,

the king, my old master, must be relieved.

Pray you, be careful.

What hast thou been?

A serving-man, proud in heart and mind;

that curled my hair; and wore gloves in my cap;

and served the lust of my mistress' heart, and did the act of darkness with her;

swore as many oaths as I spake words,

and broke them in the sweet face of heaven:

one that slept in the contriving of lust, and waked to do it:

wine loved I deeply, dice dearly:

and in woman out-paramoured the Turk:

false of heart, light of ear, bloody of hand;

hog in sloth, fox in stealth,

wolf in greediness, dog in madness,

lion in prey.

Let not the creaking of shoes nor the rustling of silks

betray thy poor heart to woman:

and defy the foul fiend.

Still through the hawthorn blows the cold wind.

Thou wert better in a grave

than to answer with thy uncovered body this extremity of the skies.

Is man no more than this?

Consider him well.

Thou owest the worm no silk, the beast no hide,

the sheep no wool, the cat no perfume.

Ha! Here's three on us are sophisticated!

Thou art the thing itself:

unaccommodated man is no more but such a poor, bare, forked animal

as thou art.

Off, off, you lendings!

Come unbutton here!

Hey!

Help!

Who's there?

What are your names?

Who's there?

This is the foul fiend Flibbertigibbet!

Aroint thee, witch, aroint thee!

The prince of darkness is a gentleman:

Modo he's call'd, and Mahu!

Poor Tom's a-cold!

Go with me: I will bring you where both fire and food is ready.

Let me talk with this philosopher. What is the cause of thunder?

Good my lord, take his offer.

What is your study?

How to prevent the fiend, and to kill vermin.

Let me ask you one word in private.

Child Rowland to the dark tower came,

his word was still...

Fie, foh, and fum,

I smell the blood of a British man.

I will have revenge ere I depart this house.

O heavens. That this treason were not my father's,

and I not the detector of it.

Thou shalt find a dearer father in my love.

This loyalty hath made thee Earl of Gloucester.

You have mighty business in hand.

Seek out where thy father is,

that he may be ready for our apprehension.

Come o'er the bourn, Bessy, to me

Her boat has a leak and she must not speak

Why dare she not come over to thee?

The foul fiend haunts poor Tom in the voice of a nightingale.

Hoppedance cries in Tom's belly for two white herring!

Croak not, black angel; I have no food for thee.

How do you, sir?

Stand you not so amazed: will you lie down and rest?

I'll see their trial first.

Bring in the evidence.

Thou robed man of justice, take thy place;

thou, his yoke-fellow of equity, bench by his side:

you are o' the commission, sit you too.

Let us deal justly. Sleepest or wakest thou, jolly shepherd?

Thy sheep be in the corn; and for one blast of thy minikin mouth,

thy sheep shall take no harm.

Pur! The cat is grey.

Arraign her first; 'tis Goneril.

I here take my oath before this honourable assembly,

she kicked the poor king, her father.

Come hither, mistress. Is your name Goneril?

She cannot deny it.

Cry you mercy, I took you for a joint-stool.

And here's another, whose warp'd looks proclaim what stone her heart is made on.

Stop! Stop her there! Arms, arms, sword, fire!

Corruption in the place! False justicer, why hast thou let her 'scape?

O pity! Sir, where is the patience now, that you so oft have boasted to retain?

The little dogs and all, Tray, Blanch, and Sweet-heart, see, they bark at me.

Tom will throw his head at them. Avaunt, you curs!

For, with throwing thus my head, dogs leapt the hatch, and all are fled.

Sessa.

Poor Tom, thy horn is dry.

Then let them anatomise Regan;

see what breeds about her heart.

Is there any cause in nature that makes these hard hearts?

Now, good my lord, lie here and rest awhile.

You, sir, I entertain to be one of my hundred;

only I don't like the fashion of your garments:

you may say they are Persian:

but let them be changed.

Oppressed nature sleeps.

Drive toward Dover, friend. I have o'erheard a plot of death upon him.

From France there comes a power landed at our best ports.

Thou shalt receive both welcome and protection.

Good my friends,

do me no foul play, friends.

The army of France is landed. Post speedily to my lord your husband.

Advise him to a most sudden preparation. We are bound to do the like.

Edmund, keep you our sister company.

How now. Where's the traitor Gloucester?

Bound fast and pinioned like a thief.

- Hang him instantly. - Pluck out his eyes.

Leave him to my displeasure.

Farewell, my lord of Gloucester.

The revenges we are bound to take upon your traitorous father

are not fit for your beholding.

Farewell, dear sister.

Ingrateful fox.

O filthy traitor.

What means your graces?

Good my friends, consider you are my guests.

To this chair bind him.

I am your host.

What will you do?

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

To whose hands have you sent the lunatic king?

Speak.

Be simple-answered, for we know the truth.

Where hast thou sent the king?

To Dover.

Wherefore to Dover? Wast thou not charged...

Wherefore to Dover?

Let him answer that.

Wherefore to Dover?

Because I would not see thy cruel nails pluck out his poor old eyes.

See it shalt thou never.

One side will mock another; the other too.

Out, vile jelly.

My lord, I have served you ever since I was a boy, but now out!

All dark and comfortless.

Edmund.

Thou call'st on him that hates thee:

it was he that made the discovery of thy treason to us;

he's too good to pity thee.

Regan,

give me your arm.

I bleed.

Throw him on a dunghill.

World, world, O world!

But that thy strange mutations make us hate thee,

life would not yield to age.

Tom's a-cold.

Is that the naked fellow?

- Ay, my lord. - Come hither.

- Know'st thou the way to Dover? - Ay, master.

As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods.

They kill us for their sport.

Spare speech; decline your head:

this kiss, if it durst speak, would stretch thy spirits up into the air.

Yours in the ranks of death.

My most dear Gloucester.

O, the difference of man and man!

To thee a woman's services are due:

a fool usurps my bed.

- I have been worth the whistle. - O Goneril.

You're not worth the dust which the rude wind blows in your face.

I fear your disposition.

No more; the text is foolish.

What have you done?

Tigers, not daughters, what have you perform'd?

Most barbarous and degenerate, you maddened a father,

and a gracious aged man.

Humanity perforce doth prey upon itself, like monsters of the deep.

Milk-liver'd man. Where's thy drum?

France spreads his banners in our land;

whil'st thou, a moral fool,

sits still and cries, ''Alack, why does he so?''

See yourself, devil.

O vain fool!

Were I the fitness to let these hands obey my blood,

they're apt enough to dislocate and tear thy flesh and bones.

Marry, your manhood...

Mew!

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.

Make no noise, make no noise;

draw the curtains: so, so.

We'll go to supper in the morning.

And I'll go to bed at noon.

There is a cliff looks fearfully on the deep:

bring me to the very brim of it:

from that place I shall no leading need.

Come on, sir.

When shall I get to the top of that same hill?

You do climb up it now: look, how we labour.

Methinks the ground is even.

Horrible steep.

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:

the fishermen, that walk upon the beach, appear like mice;

and yond tall anchoring bark,

almost too small for sight:

the murmuring surge, that on the 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.

Set me where you stand.

Give me your hand:

you are now within a foot of the extreme verge:

for all beneath the moon would I not leap upright.

Let go my hand.

Bid me farewell,

and let me hear thee going.

Now fare you well, good sir.

With all my heart.

Now, fellow, fare thee well.

O you mighty gods.

This world I do renounce, and in your sights,

shake patiently my great affliction off:

if I could bear it further,

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.

Ho, you sir! Friend!

Hear you, sir!

Speak! What are you, sir?

Away, and let me die.

Hadst thou been aught but gossamer, feathers, air,

thou'dst shiver'd like an egg:

but thou dost breathe, bleed'st not, speak'st, art sound.

Thy life's a miracle. Speak yet again.

But have I fall'n, or no?

From the dread summit of this chalky bourn.

Look up a-height;

the shrill-gorged lark so far cannot be seen or heard:

do but look up.

Alack, I have no eyes.

Is wretchedness deprived that benefit, to end itself by death?

Give me your arm: up:

so.

How is 't?

Feel you your legs?

You stand.

Too well, too well.

This is above all strangeness.

Upon the crown of the cliff,

what thing was that which parted from you?

A poor unfortunate beggar.

It was some fiend;

thou happy father,

think that the clearest gods,

who make them honours of men's impossibilities,

have preserved thee.

I do remember now:

henceforth I'll bear affliction till it do cry out itself,

''Enough, enough,'' and die.

See, that thing you speak of, I took it for a man.

Bear free and patient thoughts.

Now, good sir, what are you?

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 the word.

Sweet marjoram.

Pass.

Ha! Goneril, with a white beard!

They flattered me like a dog;

they told me I had the white hairs in my beard ere the black ones were there.

To say ''ay'' and ''no'' to every thing that I said!

''Ay'' and ''no'' too 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 of their word: they told me I was every thing:

it's a lie,

I'm not ague-proof.

The trick of that voice I do well remember:

is 't not the king?

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 it,

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 betwixt the lawful sheets.

To it, luxury, pell-mell! For I lack soldiers.

Give me an ounce of civet, good apothecary,

sweeten my imagination:

there's money for thee.

O, let me kiss that hand.

Let me wipe it first;

it smells of mortality.

O ruin'd piece of nature.

This great world shall so wear out to nought.

Dost thou know me?

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.

Were all thy letters suns, I could not see.

Read.

What, with the case of eyes?

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.

I see it feelingly.

What, art mad?

A man may see how the world goes with no eyes.

Look with thine ears:

behold yond justice rail on yond simple thief.

Hark, in thine ear: change places;

and, handy-dandy, which is the justice, and which is the thief?

- Seen a farmer's dog bark at a beggar? - Ay, sir.

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 lust'st 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 pigmy's straw does pierce it.

None does offend,

none,

I say, none;

I'll able 'em:

you take that of me, my friend, who have the power to seal the accuser's lips.

You get thee glass eyes,

and like a scurvy politician, seem to see the things thou dost not.

Now, now, now, now:

here, pull off my boots.

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'll preach to thee: mark.

Alack, alack the day!

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 it to the proof;

and when I have stol'n upon these son-in-laws,

then kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill!

Sir, your most dear daughter...

No rescue?

What, a prisoner?

I'm even the natural fool of fortune.

Use me well;

you shall have ransom.

Let me have surgeons;

I'm cut to the brains.

You shall have any thing.

No seconds?

All myself?

Why, this would make a man a man of salt,

to use his eyes for garden water-pots,

ay, and laying autumn's dust.

I will die bravely, like a smug bridegroom.

What! I will be jovial:

come, come; I am a king, masters, know you that.

You are a royal one, and we obey you.

Then there's life in 't.

Come and you get it.

You shall get it by running!

Sa, sa, sa, sa!

Come on, come on, come on!

Come on, come on, come on!

Come on!

Come on! Come on!

Ask of the duke if his last purpose hold,

or whether since he's changed his course:

he's full of alteration.

Our very loving sister, well be-met.

Sir, you speak nobly.

Where I could not be honest, I never yet was valiant:

for this war, it touches us, as France invades this land,

not as regards the king,

whose cause is just and heavy.

Why is this reason'd?

The enemy's in view; draw up your powers.

Combine together 'gainst the enemy;

for these domestic and particular broils are not the question here.

Then let's determine on our proceeding.

I shall attend you presently at your tent.

Now, sweet lord, tell me...

But truly...

But then speak the truth,

do you not love my sister?

In honour'd love.

But have you never found my brother's way to the forfended place?

That thought abuses you.

I never shall endure her:

dear my lord, be not familiar with her.

Fear me not.

Oswald.

Ho!

''If he return the conqueror:

then am I the prisoner,

and his bed my jail;

from the loathed warmth whereof deliver me,

and supply the place for your labour.''

I had rather lose the battle than that sister should loosen him and me.

She being widow, and my Gloucester with her,

may all the building in my fancy pluck upon my hateful life.

A proclaim'd prize! Most happy!

That eyeless head of thine was first framed flesh to raise my fortune.

- Come not near the old man. - Let go his arm.

- I'll not let go! - Out, dunghill!

Thou old unhappy traitor, briefly thyself remember.

How does my royal lord?

How fares your majesty?

You do me wrong to take me out of 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.

Sir, do you know me?

You are a spirit, I know:

when did you die?

Still, far wide.

He's scarce awake: let him alone awhile.

Where have I been?

Where am I?

In your own kingdom, sir.

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 that I'm not in my perfect mind.

Methinks I should know you,

and know this man;

but I'm doubtful

for I am mainly ignorant what place this is;

all the skill I have remembers not these garments;

nor do I know 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.

And so I am,

I am.

Be your tears wet?

Yes, faith.

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.

No cause, no cause.

You must bear with me:

pray you now, forget and forgive:

I'm old and foolish.

Away, old man.

King Lear has lost.

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

What, in ill thoughts again?

Men must endure their going hence, even as their coming hither;

ripeness is all.

And that's true too.

Shall we not see these daughters and these sisters?

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:

and so we'll live, and pray,

and sing, and tell old tales,

and laugh at gilded butterflies,

and we'll 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 us 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.

Take them away.

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.

Take them away!

We'll see 'em starved first.

Come hither, captain;

hark, take thou this note;

go follow them to prison:

know thou this,

men are as the time is:

to be tender-hearted does not become a sword.

Sir,

you have showed to-day your valiant strain, and fortune led you well:

you have the captives, I do require them of you.

The question of Cordelia and her father requires a fitter place.

Sir, by your patience,

I hold you but a subject in this war, not as a brother.

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.

In his own grace he doth exalt himself, more than in your addition.

In my rights, by me invested, he compeers the best.

That were the most, if he should husband you.

Jesters do oft prove prophets.

Ask him his purposes.

What are you?

Your name, your quality?

I am as noble as the adversary I come to cope.

Which is that adversary?

He that speaks for Edmund, Earl of Gloucester.

In wisdom I should ask your name.

Know that my name is lost.

Save him!

The wheel is come full circle:

I am here.

Read.

Know'st thou this paper?

Ask me not what I know.

Howl!

Howl!

Howl!

O, you are men of stones:

had I your tongues and eyes,

I'd 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.

This feather stirs;

she lives!

If it be so, it is a chance which does redeem all sorrows that ever I have felt.

Is this the promised end?

Or image of that horror?

A plague upon you, murderers, traitors all!

I might have saved her;

now she's gone for ever.

Cordelia.

Cordelia.

Stay a little.

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.

Did I not, fellow?

Who are you?

Mine eyes are not o' the best: I'll tell you straight.

Are you not Kent?

The same, your servant Kent.

He's dead and rotten.

No, my good lord;

I am the very man...

I'll see that straight.

That, from your first of difference and decay, have follow'd your sad steps.

You are welcome hither.

Nor no man else.

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'It come no more,

never, never.

Never, never, never.

O, do you see this?

Look on her.

Look, her lips.

Look there.

Look there.

- Look up, my lord. - Vex not his ghost:

O, let him pass.

He hates him that would upon the rack of this tough world stretch him out longer.

Friends of my soul,

you twain rule in this realm,

and the gored state sustain.

I have a journey, sir, shortly to go;

my master calls me,

I must not say no.

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.