KING LEAR. William Shakespeare
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[Edgar interposes.]
Osw.
Wherefore, bold peasant,
Dar’st thou support a publish’d traitor? Hence;
Lest that the infection of his fortune take
Like hold on thee. Let go his arm.
Edg.
Chill not let go, zir, without vurther ‘casion.
Osw.
Let go, slave, or thou diest!
Edg. Good gentleman, go your gait, and let poor voke pass. An chud ha’ bin zwaggered out of my life, ‘twould not ha’ bin zo long as ‘tis by a vortnight. Nay, come not near the old man; keep out, che vore ye, or ise try whether your costard or my bat be the harder: chill be plain with you.
Osw.
Out, dunghill!
Edg.
Chill pick your teeth, zir. Come! No matter vor your foins.
[They fight, and Edgar knocks him down.]
Osw.
Slave, thou hast slain me:—villain, take my purse:
If ever thou wilt thrive, bury my body;
And give the letters which thou find’st about me
To Edmund Earl of Gloster; seek him out
Upon the British party: O, untimely death!
[Dies.]
Edg.
I know thee well: a serviceable villain;
As duteous to the vices of thy mistress
As badness would desire.
Glou.
What, is he dead?
Edg.
Sit you down, father; rest you.—
Let’s see these pockets; the letters that he speaks of
May be my friends.—He’s dead; I am only sorry
He had no other death’s-man. Let us see:—
Leave, gentle wax; and, manners, blame us not:
To know our enemies’ minds, we’d rip their hearts;
Their papers is more lawful.
[Reads.] ‘Let our reciprocal vows be remembered. You have many
opportunities to cut him off: if your will want not, time and
place will be fruitfully offered. There is nothing done if he
return the conqueror: then am I the prisoner, and his bed my
gaol; from the loathed warmth whereof deliver me, and supply the
place for your labour.
‘Your (wife, so I would say) affectionate servant,
‘Goneril.’
O indistinguish’d space of woman’s will!
A plot upon her virtuous husband’s life;
And the exchange my brother!—Here in the sands
Thee I’ll rake up, the post unsanctified
Of murderous lechers: and in the mature time
With this ungracious paper strike the sight
Of the death-practis’d duke: for him ‘tis well
That of thy death and business I can tell.
[Exit Edgar, dragging out the body.]
Glou.
The king is mad: how stiff is my vile sense,
That I stand up, and have ingenious feeling
Of my huge sorrows! Better I were distract:
So should my thoughts be sever’d from my griefs,
And woes by wrong imaginations lose
The knowledge of themselves.
Edg.
Give me your hand:
[A drum afar off.]
Far off methinks I hear the beaten drum:
Come, father, I’ll bestow you with a friend.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE VII. A Tent in the French Camp. Lear on a bed, asleep, soft music playing; Physician, Gentleman, and others attending.
[Enter Cordelia, and Kent.]
Cor.
O thou good Kent, how shall I live and work
To match thy goodness? My life will be too short
And every measure fail me.
Kent.
To be acknowledg’d, madam, is o’erpaid.
All my reports go with the modest truth;
Nor more nor clipp’d, but so.
Cor.
Be better suited:
These weeds are memories of those worser hours:
I pr’ythee, put them off.
Kent.
Pardon, dear madam;
Yet to be known shortens my made intent:
My boon I make it that you know me not
Till time and I think meet.
Cor. Then be’t so, my good lord. [To the Physician.] How, does the king?
Phys.
Madam, sleeps still.
Cor.
O you kind gods,
Cure this great breach in his abused nature!
The untun’d and jarring senses, O, wind up
Of this child-changed father!
Phys.
So please your majesty
That we may wake the king: he hath slept long.
Cor.
Be govern’d by your knowledge, and proceed
I’ the sway of your own will. Is he array’d?
Gent.
Ay, madam. In the heaviness of sleep
We put fresh garments on him.
Phys.
Be by, good madam, when we do awake him;
I doubt not of his temperance.
Cor.
Very well.
Phys.
Please you draw near.—Louder the music there!
Cor.
O my dear father! Restoration hang
Thy medicine on my lips; and let this kiss
Repair those violent harms that my two sisters
Have in thy reverence made!
Kent.
Kind and dear princess!
Cor.
Had you not been their father, these white flakes
Had challeng’d pity of them. Was this a face
To be oppos’d against the warring winds?
To stand against the deep dread-bolted thunder?
In the most terrible and nimble stroke
Of quick cross lightning? to watch—,poor perdu!—
With this thin helm? Mine enemy’s dog,
Though he had bit me, should have stood that