Kent. I thought the King had more affected the Duke of Albany

      than

           Cornwall.

        Glou. It did always seem so to us; but now, in the division of

      the

           kingdom, it appears not which of the Dukes he values most,

      for

           equalities are so weigh'd that curiosity in neither can make

           choice of either's moiety.

        Kent. Is not this your son, my lord?

        Glou. His breeding, sir, hath been at my charge. I have so

      often

           blush'd to acknowledge him that now I am braz'd to't.

        Kent. I cannot conceive you.

        Glou. Sir, this young fellow's mother could; whereupon she grew

           round-womb'd, and had indeed, sir, a son for her cradle ere

      she

           had a husband for her bed. Do you smell a fault?

        Kent. I cannot wish the fault undone, the issue of it being so

           proper.

        Glou. But I have, sir, a son by order of law, some year elder

      than

           this, who yet is no dearer in my account. Though this knave

      came

           something saucily into the world before he was sent for, yet

      was

           his mother fair, there was good sport at his making, and the

           whoreson must be acknowledged. – Do you know this noble

      gentleman,

           Edmund?

        Edm. [comes forward] No, my lord.

        Glou. My Lord of Kent. Remember him hereafter as my honourable

           friend.

        Edm. My services to your lordship.

        Kent. I must love you, and sue to know you better.

        Edm. Sir, I shall study deserving.

        Glou. He hath been out nine years, and away he shall again.

                                                       Sound a sennet.

           The King is coming.

        Lear. Attend the lords of France and Burgundy, Gloucester.

        Glou. I shall, my liege.

        Lear. Meantime we shall express our darker purpose.

           Give me the map there. Know 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

           Unburthen'd 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,

           Long in our court have made their amorous sojourn,

           And here are to be answer'd. Tell me, my daughters

           (Since now we will divest us both of rule,

           Interest of territory, cares of state),

           Which of you shall we say doth love us most?

           That we our largest bounty may extend

           Where nature doth with merit challenge. Goneril,

           Our eldest-born, speak first.

        Gon. Sir, I love you more than words can wield the matter;

           Dearer than eyesight, space, and liberty;

           Beyond what can be valued, rich or rare;

           No less than life, with grace, health, beauty, honour;

           As much as child e'er lov'd, or father found;

           A love that makes breath poor, and speech unable.

           Beyond all manner of so much I love you.

        Cor. [aside] What shall Cordelia speak? Love, and be silent.

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

           With shadowy forests and with champains rich'd,

           With plenteous rivers and wide-skirted meads,

           We make thee lady. To thine and Albany's issue

           Be this perpetual. – What says our second daughter,

           Our dearest Regan, wife to Cornwall? Speak.

        Reg. Sir, I am made

           Of the selfsame metal that my sister is,

           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.

        Cor. [aside] Then poor Cordelia!

           And yet not so; since I am sure my love's

           More richer than my tongue.

        Lear. To thee and thine hereditary