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Pardon me, royal sir;

       Election makes not up on such conditions.

       Lear.

       Then leave her, sir; for, by the power that made me,

       I tell you all her wealth.—[To France] For you, great king,

       I would not from your love make such a stray

       To match you where I hate; therefore beseech you

       To avert your liking a more worthier way

       Than on a wretch whom nature is asham’d

       Almost to acknowledge hers.

       France.

       This is most strange,

       That she, who even but now was your best object,

       The argument of your praise, balm of your age,

       Most best, most dearest, should in this trice of time

       Commit a thing so monstrous, to dismantle

       So many folds of favour. Sure her offence

       Must be of such unnatural degree

       That monsters it, or your fore-vouch’d affection

       Fall’n into taint; which to believe of her

       Must be a faith that reason without miracle

       Should never plant in me.

       Cor.

       I yet beseech your majesty,—

       If for I want that glib and oily art

       To speak and purpose not; since what I well intend,

       I’ll do’t before I speak,—that you make known

       It is no vicious blot, murder, or foulness,

       No unchaste action or dishonour’d step,

       That hath depriv’d me of your grace and favour;

       But even for want of that for which I am richer,—

       A still-soliciting eye, and such a tongue

       As I am glad I have not, though not to have it

       Hath lost me in your liking.

       Lear.

       Better thou

       Hadst not been born than not to have pleas’d me better.

       France.

       Is it but this,—a tardiness in nature

       Which often leaves the history unspoke

       That it intends to do?—My lord of Burgundy,

       What say you to the lady? Love’s not love

       When it is mingled with regards that stands

       Aloof from the entire point. Will you have her?

       She is herself a dowry.

       Bur.

       Royal king,

       Give but that portion which yourself propos’d,

       And here I take Cordelia by the hand,

       Duchess of Burgundy.

       Lear.

       Nothing: I have sworn; I am firm.

       Bur.

       I am sorry, then, you have so lost a father

       That you must lose a husband.

       Cor.

       Peace be with Burgundy!

       Since that respects of fortune are his love,

       I shall not be his wife.

       France.

       Fairest Cordelia, that art most rich, being poor;

       Most choice, forsaken; and most lov’d, despis’d!

       Thee and thy virtues here I seize upon:

       Be it lawful, I take up what’s cast away.

       Gods, gods! ‘tis strange that from their cold’st neglect

       My love should kindle to inflam’d respect.—

       Thy dowerless daughter, king, thrown to my chance,

       Is queen of us, of ours, and our fair France:

       Not all the dukes of waterish Burgundy

       Can buy this unpriz’d precious maid of me.—

       Bid them farewell, Cordelia, though unkind:

       Thou losest here, a better where to find.

       Lear.

       Thou hast her, France: let her be thine; for we

       Have no such daughter, nor shall ever see

       That face of hers again.—Therefore be gone

       Without our grace, our love, our benison.—

       Come, noble Burgundy.

       [Flourish. Exeunt Lear, Burgundy, Cornwall, Albany, Gloster, and Attendants.]

       France.

       Bid farewell to your sisters.

       Cor.

       The jewels of our father, with wash’d eyes

       Cordelia leaves you: I know you what you are;

       And, like a sister, am most loath to call

       Your faults as they are nam’d. Love well our father:

       To your professed bosoms I commit him:

       But yet, alas, stood I within his grace,

       I would prefer him to a better place.

       So, farewell to you both.

       Reg.

       Prescribe not us our duties.

       Gon.

       Let your study

       Be to content your lord, who hath receiv’d you

       At fortune’s alms. You have obedience scanted,

       And well are worth the want that you have wanted.

       Cor.

       Time shall unfold what plighted cunning hides:

       Who cover faults, at last shame them derides.

       Well may you prosper!

       France.

       Come, my fair Cordelia.

       [Exeunt France and Cordelia.]

       Gon. Sister, it is not little I have to say of what most nearly appertains to us both. I think our father will hence tonight.

       Reg.

       That’s most certain, and with you; next month with us.

       Gon. You see how full of changes his age is; the observation we have made of it hath not been little: he always loved our sister most; and with what poor judgment he hath now cast her off appears too grossly.

       Reg. ‘Tis the infirmity of his age: yet he hath ever but slenderly known himself.

       Gon. The best and soundest of his time hath been but rash; then must we look to receive from his age, not alone the imperfections of long-ingraffed condition, but therewithal the unruly waywardness that infirm and choleric years bring with them.

       Reg.

       Such unconstant starts are we like to have from him as this of

       Kent’s banishment.

       Gon. There is further compliment of leave-taking between France and him. Pray you let us hit together: if our father carry authority with such dispositions as he bears, this last surrender of his will but offend us.

       Reg.

       We shall further think of it.

       Gon.

       We must do something, and i’ th’ heat.

       [Exeunt.]

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