King Lear by William Shakespeare - HTML preview

PLEASE NOTE: This is an HTML preview only and some elements such as links or page numbers may be incorrect.
Download the book in PDF, ePub, Kindle for a complete version.

ACT IV.

 

Scene I. The heath.

Enter Edgar.

Edg. 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.
  Glou. 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.
  Glou. 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. Ah dear son Edgar,
     The food of thy abused father's wrath!
     Might I but live to see thee in my touch,
     I'ld say I had eyes again!
  Old Man. How now? Who's there?
  Edg. [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.
  Edg. [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?
  Glou. Is it a beggarman?
  Old Man. Madman and beggar too.
  Glou. He has some reason, else he could not beg.
     I' th' 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 th' gods.
     They kill us for their sport.
  Edg. [aside] How should this be?
     Bad is the trade that must play fool to sorrow,
     Ang'ring itself and others.- Bless thee, master!
  Glou. Is that the naked fellow?
  Old Man. Ay, my lord.
  Glou. Then prithee get thee gone. If for my sake
     Thou wilt o'ertake us hence a mile or twain
     I' th' way toward Dover, do it for ancient love;
     And bring some covering for this naked soul,
     Who I'll entreat to lead me.
  Old Man. Alack, sir, he is mad!
  Glou. '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.
  Glou. Sirrah naked fellow-
  Edg. Poor Tom's acold. [Aside] I cannot daub it further.
  Glou. Come hither, fellow.
  Edg. [aside] And yet I must.- Bless thy sweet eyes, they bleed.
  Glou. Know'st thou the way to Dover?
  Edg. Both stile and gate, horseway and footpath. Poor Tom hath
been
     scar'd 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 dumbness; Mahu,
of
     stealing; Modo, of murder; Flibbertigibbet, of mopping and
     mowing, who since possesses chambermaids and waiting women.
So,
     bless thee, master!
  Glou. Here, take this purse, thou whom the heavens' 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 pow'r quickly;
     So distribution should undo excess,
     And each man have enough. Dost thou know Dover?
  Edg. Ay, master.
  Glou. 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.
  Edg. Give me thy arm.
     Poor Tom shall lead thee.
                                                         Exeunt.

 

Scene II. Before the Duke of Albany's Palace.

Enter Goneril and [Edmund the] Bastard.

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

Enter [Oswald the] Steward.

Now, where's your master?
  Osw. 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.
  Gon. [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 pow'rs.
     I must change arms 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. Wear this. [Gives a favour.]
     Spare speech.
     Decline your head. This kiss, if it durst speak,
     Would stretch thy spirits up into the air.
     Conceive, and fare thee well.
  Edm. Yours in the ranks of death! Exit.
  Gon. My most dear Gloucester!
     O, the difference of man and man!
     To thee a woman's services are due;
     My fool usurps my body.
  Osw. Madam, here comes my lord. Exit.

Enter Albany.

Gon. I have been worth the whistle.
  Alb. O Goneril,
     You are not worth the dust which the rude wind
     Blows in your face! I fear your disposition.
     That nature which contemns it 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.
  Gon. No more! The text is foolish.
  Alb. 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 benefited!
     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.
  Gon. Milk-liver'd man!
     That bear'st a cheek for blows, a head for wrongs;
     Who hast not in thy brows an eye discerning
     Thine honour from thy suffering; that not know'st
     Fools do 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,
     Whiles thou, a moral fool, sit'st still, and criest
     'Alack, why does he so?'
  Alb. See thyself, devil!
     Proper deformity seems not in the fiend
     So horrid as in woman.
  Gon. O vain fool!
  Alb. Thou changed and self-cover'd thing, for shame!
     Bemonster 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.
  Gon. Marry, your manhood mew!

Enter a Gentleman.

Alb. What news?
  Gent. O, my good lord, the Duke of Cornwall 's dead,
     Slain by his servant, going to put out
     The other eye of Gloucester.
  Alb. Gloucester's eyes?
  Gent. 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.
  Alb. This shows you are above,
     You justicers, that these our nether crimes
     So speedily can venge! But O poor Gloucester!
     Lose he his other eye?
  Gent. Both, both, my lord.
     This letter, madam, craves a speedy answer.
     'Tis from your sister.
  Gon. [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.
  Alb. Where was his son when they did take his eyes?
  Gent. Come with my lady hither.
  Alb. He is not here.
  Gent. No, my good lord; I met him back again.
  Alb. Knows he the wickedness?
  Gent. Ay, my good lord. 'Twas he inform'd against him,
     And quit the house on purpose, that their punishment
     Might have the freer course.
  Alb. 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.

 

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
the
     reason?
  Gent. 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?
  Gent. The Marshal of France, Monsieur La Far.
  Kent. Did your letters pierce the Queen to any demonstration of
     grief?
  Gent. 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?
  Gent. 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 way. 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?
  Gent. 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' th' storm? i' th' night?
     Let pity not be believ'd!' There she shook
     The holy water from her heavenly eyes,
     And clamour moisten'd. 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 mate could not beget
     Such different issues. You spoke not with her since?
  Gent. No.
  Kent. Was this before the King return'd?
  Gent. No, since.
  Kent. Well, sir, the poor distressed Lear's i' th' town;
     Who sometime, in his better tune, remembers
     What we are come about, and by no means
     Will yield to see his daughter.
  Gent. Why, good sir?
  Kent. A 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.
  Gent. Alack, poor gentleman!
  Kent. Of Albany's and Cornwall's powers you heard not?
  Gent. '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.

 

Scene IV. The French camp.

Enter, with Drum and Colours, Cordelia, Doctor, and Soldiers.

Cor. 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 flow'rs,
     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.
  Doct. 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.
  Cor. All blest 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 Messenger.

Mess. News, madam.
     The British pow'rs are marching hitherward.
  Cor. '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.

 

Scene V. Gloucester's Castle.

Enter Regan and [Oswald the] Steward.

Reg. But are my brother's pow'rs set forth?
  Osw. Ay, madam.
  Reg. Himself in person there?
  Osw. Madam, with much ado.
     Your sister is the better soldier.
  Reg. Lord Edmund spake not with your lord at home?
  Osw. No, madam.
  Reg. What might import my sister's letter to him?
  Osw. I know not, lady.
  Reg. 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.
  Osw. I must needs after him, madam, with my letter.
  Reg. Our troops set forth to-morrow. Stay with us.
     The ways are dangerous.
  Osw. I may not, madam.
     My lady charg'd my duty in this business.
  Reg. Why should she write to Edmund? Might not you
     Transport her purposes by word? Belike,
     Something- I know not what- I'll love thee much-
     Let me unseal the letter.
  Osw. Madam, I had rather-
  Reg. I know your lady does not love her husband;
     I am sure of that; and at her late being here
     She gave strange eyeliads and most speaking looks
     To noble Edmund. I know you are of her bosom.
  Osw. I, madam?
  Reg. 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 farewell.
     If you do chance to hear of that blind traitor,
     Preferment falls on him that cuts him off.
  Osw. Would I could meet him, madam! I should show
     What party I do follow.
  Reg. Fare thee well. Exeunt.

 

Scene VI. The country near Dover.

Enter Gloucester, and Edgar [like a Peasant].

Glou. When shall I come to th' top of that same hill?
  Edg. You do climb up it now. Look how we labour.
  Glou. Methinks the ground is even.
  Edg. Horrible steep.
     Hark, do you hear the sea?
  Glou. No, truly.
  Edg. Why, then, your other senses grow imperfect
     By your eyes' anguish.
  Glou. So may it be indeed.
     Methinks thy voice is alter'd, and thou speak'st
     In better phrase and matter than thou didst.
  Edg. Y'are much deceiv'd. In nothing am I chang'd
     But in my garments.
  Glou. Methinks y'are better spoken.
  Edg. 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. Halfway down
     Hangs one that gathers sampire- 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' unnumb'red idle pebble chafes
     Cannot be heard so high. I'll look no more,
     Lest my brain turn, and the deficient sight
     Topple down headlong.
  Glou. Set me where you stand.
  Edg. Give me your hand. You are now within a foot
     Of th' extreme verge. For all beneath the moon
     Would I not leap upright.
  Glou. Let go my hand.
     Here, friend, is 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.
  Edg. Now fare ye well, good sir.
  Glou. With all my heart.
  Edg. [aside]. Why I do trifle thus with his despair
     Is done to cure it.
  Glou. O you mighty gods! He kneels.
     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.
                                  He falls [forward and swoons].
  Edg. Gone, sir, farewell.-
     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?
  Glou. Away, and let me die.
  Edg. Hadst thou been aught but gossamer, feathers, air,
     So many fadom 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.
  Glou. But have I fall'n, or no?
  Edg. 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.
  Glou. 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.
  Edg. Give me your arm.
     Up- so. How is't? Feel you your legs? You stand.
  Glou. Too well, too well.
  Edg. This is above all strangeness.
     Upon the crown o' th' cliff what thing was that
     Which parted from you?
  Glou. A poor unfortunate beggar.
  Edg. As I stood here below, methought his eyes
     Were two full moons; he had a thousand noses,
     Horns whelk'd and wav'd like the enridged sea.
     It was some fiend. Therefore, thou happy father,
     Think that the clearest gods, who make them honours
     Of men's impossibility, have preserv'd thee.
  Glou. 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 fien