« السابقةمتابعة »
Reg. Good sir, to th' purpose.
Sir, is your lady come!
Lear. More torture still! Out, varlet, from my sight! (Strikes Oswald.
Corn. What means your grace!
Lear. Who stock'd my servant? Regan, I have hope Thou didst not know it. [Trumpet sounds.
Enter Goneril and Attendants.
Who comes here? Oh, Heav'ns!
If you do love old men; if your sweet sway
Allow obedience; if yourselves are old,
Make it your cause; send down, and take my part!
Why, Gorgon, dost thou come to haunt me here ?
Art not asham'd to look upon this beard?
Darkness upon my eyes, they play me false!
O, Regan, wilt thou take her by the hand?
Gon. Why not by th' hand, sir? How have I offended? All's not offence that indiscretion finds, And dotage terms so.
Lear. Heart, thou art too tough!
Reg. I pray you, sir, being old, confess you are so. If, till the expiration of your month, You will return, and sojourn with our sister, Dismissing half your train, come then to me; I'm now from home, and out of that provision That shall be needful for your entertainment.
Lear. Return with her, and fifty knights dismiss'd? No, rather I'll abjure all roofs, and chuse To be companion to the midnight wolf,
My naked head expos'd to th' merciless air,
Gon. At your choice, sir.
Lear. Now, I pr'ythee, daughter, do not make me
Reg. Your pardon, sir;
Lear. Is this well spoken, now?
Reg. My sister treats you fair. What! fifty followers? Is it not well? What should you need of more?
Gon. Why might not you, my lord, receive attendance From those whom she calls servants, or from mine?
Reg. Why not, my lord? If then they chance to slack you, We could control them.—If you come to me, For now I see the danger, I intreat you To bring but five and twenty; to no more Will I give place.
Lear. I gave you all!
Reg. And in good time you gave it.
Lear. Hold, now, my temper! stand this bolt unmov'd, And I am thunder proof.
The wicked, when compar'd with the more wicked,
Gon. Hear me, my lord. [It begins to rain.
What need you five and twenty, ten, or five,
Reg. What need one? [Distant Thunder.
Lear. Heav'ns drop your patience down!
I have full cause of weeping; but this heart
O, gods, I shall go mad!
[Exeunt King Lear, Kent and the Knights—
ACT THE THIRD.
A desert Heath.—Rain—Thunder -Lightning.
Enter King Lear and Kent.
Lear. Blow, winds, and burst your cheeks! rage louder yet! Fantastic lightning, singe,singe my white head! Spout cataracts, and hurricanoes fall, Till you have drown'd the towns and palaces Of proud, ingrateful man!
Kent. Not all my best intreaties can persuade him Into some needful shelter, or to 'bide This poor slight cov'ring on his aged head, Expos'd to this wild war of earth and hea/n.
Lear. Rumble thy fill! fight whirlwind, rain and fire! Not fire, wind, rain, or thunder, are my daughters: I tax not you, ye elements, with unkindness: I never gave you kingdoms, call'd you children; You owe me no obedience.—Then let fall Your horrible pleasure !—Here I stand your slave, A poor, infirm, weak, and despis'd old man.—
[Rain—Thunder—Lightning. Yet I will call you servile ministers, That have with two pernicious daughters join'd Your high engendered battle 'gainst a head
So old and white as this. Oh! oh! 'tis foul.
Kent. Hard by, sir, is a hovel, that will lend Some shelter from this tempest.
Lear. I will forget my nature. What! So kind a father!— [Rain—Thunder—Lightning.
Ay, there's the point.
Kent. Consider, good my liege, things, that love night, Love not such nights as this; these wrathful skies Gallow the very wanderers of the dark, And make them keep their caves: such drenching
rain, Such sheets of fire, such claps of horrid thunder, Such groans of roaring winds, have ne'er been known.
Lear. Let the great gods, That keep this dreadful pother o'er our heads, Find out their enemies now. Tremble, thou wretch, That hast within thee undiscover'd crimes !— Hide, hide, thou murd'rer, hide thy bloody hand !— Thou perjur'd villain, holy hypocrite, That drink'st the widow's tears, sigh now, and ask
These dreadful summoners' grace! I am a man
More sinn'd against, than sinning.
Kent. Good sir, to th' hovel.
Lear. My wits begin to turn.
Come on, my boy; how dost, my boy? art cold?
I'm cold myself; show me this straw, my fellow;
The art of our necessity is strange,
And can make vile things precious.—my poor knave,
Cold as I am at heart, I've one place there
That's sorry yet for thee.
[Rain — Thunder—Lightning.—Exeunt]