LITMIR.BIZ

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[Enter Edgar.]

       Pat!—he comes, like the catastrophe of the old comedy: my cue is villainous melancholy, with a sigh like Tom o’ Bedlam.—O, these eclipses do portend these divisions! fa, sol, la, mi.

       Edg.

       How now, brother Edmund! what serious contemplation are you in?

       Edm. I am thinking, brother, of a prediction I read this other day, what should follow these eclipses.

       Edg.

       Do you busy yourself with that?

       Edm. I promise you, the effects he writes of succeed unhappily: as of unnaturalness between the child and the parent; death, dearth, dissolutions of ancient amities; divisions in state, menaces and maledictions against king and nobles; needless diffidences, banishment of friends, dissipation of cohorts, nuptial breaches, and I know not what.

       Edg.

       How long have you been a sectary astronomical?

       Edm.

       Come, come! when saw you my father last?

       Edg.

       The night gone by.

       Edm.

       Spake you with him?

       Edg.

       Ay, two hours together.

       Edm. Parted you in good terms? Found you no displeasure in him by word or countenance?

       Edg.

       None at all.

       Edm. Bethink yourself wherein you may have offended him: and at my entreaty forbear his presence until some little time hath qualified the heat of his displeasure; which at this instant so rageth in him that with the mischief of your person it would scarcely allay.

       Edg.

       Some villain hath done me wrong.

       Edm. That’s my fear. I pray you have a continent forbearance till the speed of his rage goes slower; and, as I say, retire with me to my lodging, from whence I will fitly bring you to hear my lord speak: pray you, go; there’s my key.—If you do stir abroad, go armed.

       Edg.

       Armed, brother!

       Edm. Brother, I advise you to the best; I am no honest man if there be any good meaning toward you: I have told you what I have seen and heard but faintly; nothing like the image and horror of it: pray you, away!

       Edg.

       Shall I hear from you anon?

       Edm.

       I do serve you in this business.

       [Exit Edgar.]

       A credulous father! and a brother noble,

       Whose nature is so far from doing harms

       That he suspects none; on whose foolish honesty

       My practices ride easy!—I see the business.

       Let me, if not by birth, have lands by wit:

       All with me’s meet that I can fashion fit.

       [Exit.]

       SCENE III. A Room in the Duke of Albany’s Palace.

       [Enter Goneril and Oswald.]

       Gon.

       Did my father strike my gentleman for chiding of his fool?

       Osw. Ay, madam.

       Gon.

       By day and night, he wrongs me; every hour

       He flashes into one gross crime or other,

       That sets us all at odds; I’ll not endure it:

       His knights grow riotous, and himself upbraids us

       On every trifle.—When he returns from hunting,

       I will not speak with him; say I am sick.—

       If you come slack of former services,

       You shall do well; the fault of it I’ll answer.

       Osw.

       He’s coming, madam; I hear him.

       [Horns within.]

       Gon.

       Put on what weary negligence you please,

       You and your fellows; I’d have it come to question:

       If he distaste it, let him to our sister,

       Whose mind and mine, I know, in that are one,

       Not to be overruled. Idle old man,

       That still would manage those authorities

       That he hath given away!—Now, by my life,

       Old fools are babes again; and must be us’d

       With checks as flatteries,—when they are seen abus’d.

       Remember what I have said.

       Osw.

       Very well, madam.

       Gon.

       And let his knights have colder looks among you;

       What grows of it, no matter; advise your fellows so;

       I would breed from hence occasions, and I shall,

       That I may speak.—I’ll write straight to my sister

       To hold my very course.—Prepare for dinner.

       [Exeunt.]

       SCENE IV. A Hall in Albany’s Palace.

       [Enter Kent, disguised.]

       Kent.

       If but as well I other accents borrow,

       That can my speech defuse, my good intent

       May carry through itself to that full issue

       For which I rais’d my likeness.—Now, banish’d Kent,

       If thou canst serve where thou dost stand condemn’d,

       So may it come, thy master, whom thou lov’st,

       Shall find thee full of labours.

       [Horns within. Enter King Lear, Knights, and Attendants.]

       Lear.

       Let me not stay a jot for dinner; go get it ready.

       [Exit an Attendant.]

       How now! what art thou?

       Kent.

       A man, sir.

       Lear.

       What dost thou profess? What wouldst thou with us?

       Kent. I do profess to be no less than I seem; to serve him truly that will put me in trust; to love him that is honest; to converse with him that is wise and says little; to fear judgment; to fight when I cannot choose; and to eat no fish.

       Lear.

       What art thou?

       Kent.

       A very honest-hearted fellow, and as poor as the king.

       Lear. If thou be’st as poor for a subject as he’s for a king, thou art poor enough. What wouldst thou?

       Kent.

       Service.

       Lear.

       Who wouldst thou serve?

       Kent.

       You.

       Lear.

       Dost thou know me, fellow?

       Kent. No, sir; but you have that in your countenance which I would fain call master.

       Lear.

       What’s that?

       Kent.

      

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