The Complete Works of William Shakespeare Part 280

Reg. I dare avouch it, sir. What, fifty followers?

Is it not well? What should you need of more?

Yea, or so many, sith that both charge and danger Speak 'gainst so great a number? How in one house Should many people, under two commands, Hold amity? 'Tis hard; almost impossible.

Gon. Why might not you, my lord, receive attendance From those that she calls servants, or from mine?

Reg. Why not, my lord? If then they chanc'd to slack ye, 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.

Lear. I gave you all- Reg. And in good time you gave it!

Lear. Made you my guardians, my depositaries; But kept a reservation to be followed With such a number. What, must I come to you With five-and-twenty, Regan? Said you so?

Reg. And speak't again my lord. No more with me.

Lear. Those wicked creatures yet do look well-favour'd When others are more wicked; not being the worst Stands in some rank of praise. [To Goneril] I'll go with thee.

Thy fifty yet doth double five-and-twenty, And thou art twice her love.

Gon. 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?

Reg. What need one?

Lear. O, reason not the need! Our basest beggars Are in the poorest thing superfluous.

Allow not nature more than nature needs, Man's life is 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- You heavens, give me that patience, patience I need!

You see me here, you G.o.ds, 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 n.o.ble 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!

Exeunt Lear, Gloucester, Kent, and Fool. Storm and tempest.

Corn. Let us withdraw; 'twill be a storm.

Reg. This house is little; the old man and 's people Cannot be well bestow'd.

Gon. 'Tis his own blame; hath put himself from rest And must needs taste his folly.

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

Gon. So am I purpos'd.

Where is my Lord of Gloucester?

Corn. Followed the old man forth.

Enter Gloucester.

He is return'd.

Glou. The King is in high rage.

Corn. Whither is he going?

Glou. He calls to horse, but will I know not whither.

Corn. 'Tis best to give him way; he leads himself.

Gon. My lord, entreat him by no means to stay.

Glou. Alack, the night comes on, and the bleak winds Do sorely ruffle. For many miles about There's scarce a bush.

Reg. O, sir, to wilful men The injuries that they themselves procure Must be their schoolmasters. Shut up your doors.

He is attended with a desperate train, And what they may incense him to, being apt To have his ear abus'd, wisdom bids fear.

Corn. Shut up your doors, my lord: 'tis a wild night.

My Regan counsels well. Come out o' th' storm. [Exeunt.]

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ACT III. Scene I.

A heath.

Storm still. Enter Kent and a Gentleman at several doors.

Kent. Who's there, besides foul weather?

Gent. One minded like the weather, most unquietly.

Kent. I know you. Where's the King?

Gent. Contending with the fretful elements; Bids the wind blow the earth into the sea, Or swell the curled waters 'bove the main, That things might change or cease; tears his white hair, Which the impetuous blasts, with eyeless rage, Catch in their fury and make nothing of; Strives in his little world of man to outscorn The to-and-fro-conflicting wind and rain.

This night, wherein the cub-drawn bear would couch, The lion and the belly-pinched wolf Keep their fur dry, unbonneted he runs, And bids what will take all.

Kent. But who is with him?

Gent. None but the fool, who labours to outjest His heart-struck injuries.

Kent. Sir, I do know you, And dare upon the warrant of my note Commend a dear thing to you. There is division (Although as yet the face of it be cover'd With mutual cunning) 'twixt Albany and Cornwall; Who have (as who have not, that their great stars Thron'd and set high?) servants, who seem no less, Which are to France the spies and speculations Intelligent of our state. What hath been seen, Either in snuffs and packings of the Dukes, Or the hard rein which both of them have borne Against the old kind King, or something deeper, Whereof, perchance, these are but furnis.h.i.+ngs- But, true it is, from France there comes a power Into this scattered kingdom, who already, Wise in our negligence, have secret feet In some of our best ports and are at point To show their open banner. Now to you: If on my credit you dare build so far To make your speed to Dover, you shall find Some that will thank you, making just report Of how unnatural and bemadding sorrow The King hath cause to plain.

I am a gentleman of blood and breeding, And from some knowledge and a.s.surance offer This office to you.

Gent. I will talk further with you.

Kent. No, do not.

For confirmation that I am much more Than my out-wall, open this purse and take What it contains. If you shall see Cordelia (As fear not but you shall), show her this ring, And she will tell you who your fellow is That yet you do not know. Fie on this storm!

I will go seek the King.

Gent. Give me your hand. Have you no more to say?

Kent. Few words, but, to effect, more than all yet: That, when we have found the King (in which your pain That way, I'll this), he that first lights on him Holla the other.

Exeunt [severally].

Scene II.

Another part of the heath.

Storm still. Enter Lear and Fool.

Lear. Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow!

You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout Till you have drench'd our steeples, drown'd the c.o.c.ks!

You sulph'rous and thought-executing fires, Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts, Singe my white head! And thou, all-shaking thunder, Strike flat the thick rotundity o' th' world, Crack Nature's moulds, all germains spill at once, That makes ingrateful man!

Fool. O nuncle, court holy water in a dry house is better than this rain water out o' door. Good nuncle, in, and ask thy daughters blessing! Here's a night pities nether wise men nor fools.

Lear. 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 despis'd old man.

But yet I call you servile ministers, That will with two pernicious daughters join Your high-engender'd battles 'gainst a head So old and white as this! O! O! 'tis foul!

Fool. He that has a house to put 's head in has a good head-piece.

The codpiece that will house Before the head has any, The head and he shall louse: So beggars marry many.

The man that makes his toe What he his heart should make Shall of a corn cry woe, And turn his sleep to wake.

For there was never yet fair woman but she made mouths in a gla.s.s.

Enter Kent.

Lear. No, I will be the pattern of all patience; I will say nothing.

Kent. Who's there?

Fool. Marry, here's grace and a codpiece; that's a wise man and a fool.

Kent. Alas, sir, are you here? Things that love night Love not such nights as these. The wrathful skies Gallow the very wanderers of the dark And make them keep their caves. Since I was man, Such sheets of fire, such bursts of horrid thunder, Such groans of roaring wind and rain, I never Remember to have heard. Man's nature cannot carry Th' affliction nor the fear.