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        Flourish. Enter Gloucester, with France and Burgundy;

      Attendants.

        Glou. Here's France and Burgundy, my noble lord.

        Lear. My Lord of Burgundy,

           We first address toward you, who with this king

           Hath rivall'd for our daughter. What in the least

           Will you require in present dower with her,

           Or cease your quest of love?

        Bur. Most royal Majesty,

           I crave no more than hath your Highness offer'd,

           Nor will you tender less.

        Lear. Right noble Burgundy,

           When she was dear to us, we did hold her so;

           But now her price is fall'n. Sir, there she stands.

           If aught within that little seeming substance,

           Or all of it, with our displeasure piec'd,

           And nothing more, may fitly like your Grace,

           She's there, and she is yours.

        Bur. I know no answer.

        Lear. Will you, with those infirmities she owes,

           Unfriended, new adopted to our hate,

           Dow'r'd with our curse, and stranger'd with our oath,

           Take her, or leave her?

        Bur. Pardon me, royal sir.

           Election makes not up on such conditions.

        Lear. Then leave her, sir; for, by the pow'r 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

           T' avert your liking a more worthier way

           Than on a wretch whom nature is asham'd

           Almost t' acknowledge hers.

        France. This is most strange,

           That she that 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, murther, or foulness,

           No unchaste action or dishonoured 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 t' 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 th' entire point. Will you have her?

           She is herself a dowry.

        Bur. Royal Lear,

           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 dow'rless daughter, King, thrown to my chance,

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

           Not all the dukes in wat'rish 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.

        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. Use well our father.

           To your professed

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