King Lear (2015) - full transcript

- I thought the king had more

affected the Duke of Albany than Cornwall.

- It did always seem so to us.

But now, in the division of the kingdom,

it appears not which of
the dukes he values most.

- Is not this your son, my lord?

- His breeding, sir,
hath been at my charge.

I have so often blushed
to acknowledge him,

that now I am brazed to it.

- I cannot conceive you.

- Sir, this young fellow's mother could.



Whereupon she grew round-wombed,
and had, indeed, sir,

a son for her cradle ere she
had a husband for her bed.

Do you smell a fault?

- I cannot wish the fault undone,

the issue of it being so proper.

- But I have a son, sir, by order of law,

some year elder than this,

who yet is no dearer in my account.

Though this knave came something saucily

to the world before he was sent for,

yet was his mother fair.

There was good sport at his making.

And the whoreson must be acknowledged.

Do you know this noble gentleman, Edmund?



- No, my lord.
- My lord of Kent.

Remember him hereafter
as my honorable friend.

- My services to your lordship.

- I must love you,

and sue to know you better.

- Sir, I shall study deserving.

- He hath been out nine years,
and away he shall again.

The king is coming.

- Attend the lords of France
and Burgundy, Gloucester.

I shall, my lord.

- Meantime, we shall
express our darker purpose.

Give me the map there.

Know that we have divided
in three our kingdom,

and 'tis our fast intent

to shake all cares and
business from our age.

Conferring them on younger strengths

while we unburdened crawl toward death.

Our son of Cornwall,

and you, our no less loving son of Albany,

we have this hour a
constant will to publish

our daughters' several dowers,

that future strife may be prevented now.

The princes, France and Burgundy,

great rivals in our
youngest daughter's love,

long in our court have
made their amorous sojourn

and here are to be answered.

Tell me, my daughters,

since now we will divest us both of rule,

interest of territory, cares of state.

Which of you shall we
say doth love us most?

That we our largest bounty may extend

where nature doth with merit challenge.

Goneril, our eldest-born, speak first.

- Sir, I do love you more than
words can wield the matter.

Dearer than eye-sight, space, and liberty,

beyond what can be valued, rich or rare,

no less than life with
grace, health, beauty, honor.

As much as child e'er
loved or father found.

A love that makes breath
poor, and speech unable.

Beyond all manner of so much I love you.

- What shall Cordelia speak?

Love and be silent.

- Of all these bounds, even
from this line to this,

with shadowy forests and
with with plenteous rivers,

we make thee lady to thine
and Albany's children

be this perpetual.

What says our second daughter,

our dearest Regan, wife to Cornwall?

Speak.

- Sir, I am made of that
self metal as my sister

and prize me at her worth.

In my true heart I find she
names my very deed of love,

only she comes too short.

But I profess myself

an enemy to all other joys,

which the most precious
square of sense possesses.

And find I am alone felicitate
in your dear highness' love.

- Then poor Cordelia!

And yet not so

since I am sure my love's
more ponderous than my tongue.

- To thee and thine hereditary ever

remain this ample third
of our fair kingdom.

No less in space, validity and pleasure

than that conferred on Goneril.

And now, our joy, although
our last and least,

to whose young love the vines
of France and milk of Burgundy

strive to be interessed.

What can you say to draw a third

more opulent than your sisters?

Speak.

- Nothing, my lord.

- Nothing?

- Nothing.

- Nothing will come of nothing.

Speak again.

- Unhappy that I am,

I cannot heath my heart into my mouth.

I love your majesty according to my bond.

No more nor less.

- How, how, Cordelia?

Mend your speech a little,

lest it may mar your fortunes.

- Good my lord.

You have begot me, bred me, loved me.

I return those duties
back as are right fit.

Obey you, love you and most honor you.

Why have my sisters husbands

if they say they love you all?

Haply, when I shall wed,
that lord whose hand

must take my plight shall
carry half my love with him,

half my care and duty.

Sure, I shall never marry like my sisters

to love my father all.

- But goes thy heart with this?

- Ay, good my lord.

- So young, and so untender?

- So young, my lord, and true.

- Let it be so.

Thy truth, then, be thy dower.

For, by the sacred radiance of the sun,

here I disclaim all my paternal care,

propinquity and property of blood

and as a stranger to my heart and me

hold thee from this, for ever.

The barbarous Scythian

or he that makes his generation messes

to gorge his appetite,

shall to my bosom be as well neighbored,

pitied, and relieved as
thou my sometime daughter.

Good my liege--

- Peace, Kent!

Come not between the dragon and his wrath.

I loved her most,

and thought to set my
rest on her kind nursery.

Hence, and avoid my sight!

So be my grave my peace,

as here I give her
father's heart from her!

Call France.

Who stirs?

Call Burgundy.

Cornwall and Albany,

with my two daughters'
dowers digest this third.

Let pride, which she calls
plainness, marry her.

I do invest you jointly with my power.

Ourself, by monthly course,

with reservation of an hundred knights,

by you to be sustained,

shall our abode make with you by due turn.

Only we shall retain the name

and all the addition to a king.

The sway, revenue, execution of the rest,

beloved sons, be yours

which to confirm,

this coronet part betwixt you.

- Royal Lear!

Whom I have ever honored as my king,

loved as my father, as my master followed,

as my great patron
thought on in my prayers.

- The bow is bent and
drawn, make from the shaft.

- Let it fall rather,
though the fork invade

the region of my heart.

Be Kent unmannerly when Lear is mad.

What wilt thou do, old man?

To plainness honor's bound

when majesty stoops to folly.

Reserve thy state.

And in thy best consideration,

cheque this hideous rashness.

Answer my life my judgment,

thy youngest daughter
does not love thee least.

- Kent, on thy life, no more.

- My life I never held but as a pawn

to wage against thy enemies,

nor fear to lose it,

thy safety being the motive.

- Out of my sight!

- See better, Lear!

And let me still remain the
true blank of thine eye.

- Now, by Apollo--

- Now, by Apollo, king,

thou swear'st thy gods in vain.

- O, vassal!

Miscreant!
- My lord, forbear.

- Kill thy physician

and the fee bestow upon thy foul disease.

Revoke thy gift

or whilst I can vent
clamor from my throat,

I'll tell thee thou dost evil.

- Hear me, recreant!

On thine allegiance, hear me!

Five days we do allot thee

for provision to shield thee
from disasters of the world,

and on the sixth to turn thy
hated back upon our kingdom.

If, on the next day following,

thy banished trunk be
found in our dominions,

the moment is thy death.

Away.

By Jupiter,

this shall not be revoked!

- Fare thee well, king.

Since thus thou wilt appear,

freedom lives hence,
and banishment is here.

The gods to their dear
shelter take thee, maid,

That justly think'st and
hast most rightly said.

And your large speeches

may your deeds approve that
good effects may spring

from words of love.

Thus Kent, oh princes, bids you all adieu.

He'll shape his old
course in a country new.

- Here's France and Burgundy,

my noble lord.

- My lord of Burgundy, we
first address towards you.

Who with this king hath
rivaled for our daughter.

What, in the least, will you require

in presents dower with her
or cease your quest of love?

- Most royal majesty,

I crave no more than hath
your highness offered,

nor will you tender less.

- Right noble Burgundy,

when she was dear to
us, we did hold her so

but now her price is fallen.

Sir, there she stands.

If aught within that little
seeming substance or all of it,

with our displeasure
pieced and nothing more,

may fitly like your graces.

She's there and she is yours.

- I know no answer.

- Will you, with those
infirmities she owes,

unfriended, new-adopted to our hate,

dowered with our curse and
strangered with our oath,

take her or leave her?

- Pardon me, royal sir.

Election makes not up on such conditions.

- Then leave her, sir,

for by the power that made me,

I tell you all her wealth.

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 ashamed

almost to acknowledge hers.

- She is most strange,

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

the argument of your
praise, balm of your age,

the best, the dearest,

should in this trice
of time commit a thing

so monstrous to dismantle
so many folds of favor.

Sure, her offense must be
of such unnatural degree

that monsters it.

- 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 it before I speak

that you make known

it is no vicious blot, murder or foulness

that hath deprived me
of your grace and favor.

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

A still-soliciting eye and such a tongue

that I am glad I have not,

though not to have it hath
lost me in your liking.

- Better thou hadst not been born

than not to have pleased me better.

- Is it but this?

A tardiness in nature.

My lord of Burgundy,
what say you to the lady?

Will you have her?

She is herself a dowry.

- Royal king.

Give but that portion
which yourself proposed.

And here I take Cordelia by the hand,

Duchess of Burgundy.

- Nothing.

I have sworn, I am firm.

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

that you must lose a husband.

- Peace be with Burgundy!

Since that respects of
fortune are his love,

I shall not be his wife.

- Fairest Cordelia.

Who art most rich, being
poor, most choice forsaken

and most loved, despised thee

and thy virtues here I seize upon.

Be it lawful,

I take up what's cast away.

God.

Gods!

'Tis strange that from
their coldest neglect,

my love should kindle to inflamed respect.

Thy dowerless daughter, king,

thrown to my chance is queen of us.

Of ours and our fair France.

- 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.

- Bid farewell to your sisters.

- The jewels of our father,

with washed eyes Cordelia leaves you:

I know you what you are.

And like a sister am most loath

to call your faults as they are named.

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.

- Prescribe not us our duty.

- Let your study be to content your lord

who hath received you at fortune's alms.

You have obedience scanted.

Well may you prosper.

- Come, my fair Cordelia.

- Sister, it is not a little I have to say

of what most nearly appertains to us both.

I think our father will hence tonight.

- That's most certain.

And with you,

next month with us.

- You see how full of changes his age is.

He always loved our sister most

and with what poor judgment he hath now

cast her off appears too grossly.

- 'Tis the infirmity of his age yet,

he hath ever but slenderly known himself.

- The best and soundest of
his time hath been but rash.

Now, must we look to receive from his age,

the unruly waywardness that
infirm and choleric years

bring with them.

- Such unconstant starts
are we like to have

from him as this of Kent's banishment.

- Pray you, let us hitch together.

If our father carry authority

with such dispositions as he bears,

this last surrender of
his will but offend us.

- We shall think further of it.

- We must do something,

and in the heat.

- Thou, nature, art my goddess

to thy law, my services are bound.

Wherefore should I stand
in the plague of custom

and permit the curiosity
of nations to deprive me?

For that I am some 12 or 14
moon-shines lag of a brother?

Why bast?

Wherefore base?

When my dimensions are as well compact,

my mind as generous and my shape as true

as honest madam's issue?

Why brand they us with base?

With baseness, bastardy, base, base?

Who in the lusty stealth of nature

take more composition and fierce quality

than doth within a dull, stale, tired bed

go to the creating a whole tribe of fops.

Got 'tween asleep and wake?

Well, then, legitimate Edgar,

I must have your land.

Our father's love is to the bastard Edmund

as to the legitimate.

Fine word.

Legitimate!

Well, my legitimate.

If this letter speed
and my invention thrive,

Edmund the base shall top the legitimate.

I grow, I prosper.

Now, gods, stand up for bastards!

- Kent banished thus and
France in choler parted!

And the king gone tonight.

All this done upon the gad!

Edmund, how now, what news?

- I know no news, my lord.

- What's paper were you reading?

- Nothing, my lord.

- No, what needed then
that terrible dispatch

of it into your pocket?

The quality of nothing hath
not such need to hide itself.

Let's see.

Come, if it be nothing, I
shall not need spectacles.

- I beseech you, sir, pardon me.

It is a letter from my brother

that I have not all o'er read

but for so much as I have perused,

I find it not fit for your o'er looking.

- Give me the letter, sir.

- Well, I shall offend,
either to detain or give it.

- Let's see, let's see.

- I hope, for my brother's justification

that he had writ this but as
an essay or taste of my virtue.

- This policy and reverence of age

keeps our fortunes from us

till our oldness cannot relish them.

I begin to find an idle and fond bondage

in the oppression of aged tyranny.

Come to me, that of
this, I may speak more.

If our father would
sleep till I waked him,

you should enjoy half his revenue forever

and live the beloved
of your brother, Edgar.

Sleep till I waked him,

you should enjoy half his revenue?

My son Edgar, had he a hand to write this?

A heart and brain to breed it in?

When came this to you?

Who brought it?

- It was not brought me, my lord.

There's the cunning of it but I found it,

thrown in at the casement of my closet.

- Now, you know the character
to be your brother's?

- It is his hand, my lord.

But I hope his heart
is not in the contents.

- Hath he never heretofore
sounded you in this business?

- Never.
- Ha!

- But I have heard him
oft maintain it to be fit

that sons at perfect age,

and fathers declined.

The father should be as ward to the son

and the son manage his revenue.

- Villain, villain!

His very opinion in the letter!

Unnatural, brutish villain!

Worse than brutish, go!

Sirrah, seek him.

I'll apprehend him.

Abominable villain, where is he?

- I do not well know, my lord.

Please you,

suspend your indignation
against my brother

till you can derive from him
better testimony of his intent.

I dare pawn down my life for
him that he hath writ this

but to feel my affection to your honor

and to no other pretense of danger.

- Think you so?

- If your honor judge it meet,

I will place you where you
shall hear us confer of this.

By an auricular assurance,

have your satisfaction.

- He cannot be such a monster.

- Nor is not, sure.

- To his father.

That so tenderly and entirely loves him.

Heaven and earth.

Edmund, seek him out, I pray you,

frame the business after your own wisdom.

- Shall seek him, sir, presently.

- These late eclipses
in the sun and the moon

portend no good to us.

Love cools, friendship
falls off, brothers divide.

In cities, mutinies,

in countries, discord,

in palaces, treason

and the bond cracked
'twixt son and father.

This villain of mine comes
under the prediction.

There's son against father.

The king falls from bias of nature.

There's father against child.

We have seen the best of our time.

Machinations, hollowness, treachery

and all ruinous disorders

follow us disquietly to our graves.

Find out this villain, Edmund.

It shall lose thee nothing.

Do it carefully.

And the noble and
true-hearted Kent banished,

his offense, honesty.

'Tis strange.

Strange.

- This is the excellent
foppery of the world,

that when we are sick in fortune,

often the surfeits of our own behavior,

we make guilty of our disasters,

the sun, the moon, and the stars.

As if we were villains on necessity.

Fools by heavenly compulsion.

Knaves, thieves, and treachers

by spherical predominance.

Dunkards, liars, and adulterers

by an enforced obedience
of planetary influence.

All that we are evil in
by a divine thrusting on.

An admirable evasion of whoremaster man

to lay his goatish disposition
on the charge of a star.

My father compounded with my
mother under the dragon's tail

and my nativity was under Ursa Major

so it follows that I
am rough and lecherous.

Tut.

I should have been that I
am had the maidenliest star

in the firmament twinkled
on my bastardizing.

Pat he comes.

My cue, villainous melancholy.

Brother.

Brother, go!

Come away now.
- No.

- Come away!

- How now!

Brother Edmund!

Oh now, what serious
contemplation are you in?

- When saw you my father last?

- I have, a night gone by.

- Spake you with him?

- Ay, two hours together.

- Parted you in good terms?

Found you no displeasure in him

either in word nor countenance?

- No, no, none at all.

- Bethink yourself

wherein you may have offended him.

And at my entreaty forbear his presence

till some little time hath qualified

the heat of his displeasure

which at this instant so rageth him.

- Some villain hath done me wrong.

- That's my fear.

I pray you.

Retire with me to my lodging from whence

I will fitly bring you
to hear my lord speak.

There's my key.

Pray ye, away.

If you do stir abroad, go armed.

- Armed, brother.

- Brother, I advise you
to the best, go armed.

I have have told you what I've
seen and heard but faintly.

Nothing like the image and horror of it.

Pray you, away.

- Shall I hear from you anon?

- I do serve you in this business.

A credulous father and a
brother 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.

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

Ay, madam.

- 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.

- He's coming, madam, I hear him.

- Put on what weary negligence you please,

you and your fellows.

I'll have it come to question.

If he distaste it, let him to my sister

whose mind and mine, I
know, in that are one.

- Well, madam.

- I'll write straight to my
sister to hold my very course.

Go, prepare for dinner.

- Now, banished Kent,

if thou canst serve where
thou dost stand condemned,

so may it come, thy
master, whom thou lovest,

shall find thee full of labors.

- Let me not stay a jot for dinner.

Go, get it ready.

How now, what art thou?

- A man, sir.

- What dost thou profess?

What wouldst thou with us?

- 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.

- What art thou?

- A very honest-hearted fellow, sir

and as poor as the king.

- If thou be as poor for a
subject as he is for a king,

thou art poor enough.

What wouldst thou?

- Service.

- Who wouldst thou serve?

- You.

- Dost thou know me, fellow?

- No, sir but you have
that in your countenance

I would fain call master.

- What's that?

- Authority.

- What services canst thou do?

- I can keep honest counsel,

ride, run, mar a curious
tale in telling it

and deliver a plain message bluntly,

that which ordinary men are
fit for, I am qualified in.

And the best of me is diligence.

How old art thou?

- Not so young, sir, to
love a woman for singing

nor so old to dote on her for anything.

I have years on my back, 48.

- Follow me!

Thou shalt serve me.

If I like thee no worse after dinner,

I will not part from thee yet.

Dinner, ho, dinner!

Yeah!

- Now, where's my knave?

My fool?

Go you, call hither my fool.

You, you, sirrah, where's my daughter?

So please you.

- What says the fellow there?

Call the clotpoll back.

Where's my fool, ho?

I think the world's asleep.

How now!

Where's that mongrel?

- He says, my lord, your
daughter is not well.

- Why came not the slave
back to me when I called him.

- Sir, he answered me
in the roundest manner,

he would not.

- He would not?

- My lord, I know not what the matter is

but to my judgment,

your highness is not entertained

with that ceremonious
affection as you were wont.

There's a great abatement of kindness

appears as well in the general dependants

as in the duke himself also

and your daughter.

- Ha!

Sayest thou so?

- I beseech you, pardon me,
my lord, if I be mistaken,

for my duty cannot be silent

when I think your highness wronged.

- I have perceived a most
faint neglect of late.

I will look further into it.

But where's my fool?

I have not seen him this two days.

- Since my young lady's going into France,

sir, the fool hath much pined away.

- No more of that.

I have noted it well.

Go you and tell my daughter
I would speak with her.

Go you, call hither my fool.

You sir, you, come you hither, sir.

Who am I, sir?

- My lady's father.

- My lady's father?

My lord's knave.

Your whoreson dog.

You slave, you cur!

- I am none of these, my lord.

I beseech your pardon.

- Do you bandy looks with me, you rascal?

- I'll not be strucking, my lord.

- Nor tripped neither,
you base football player.

I'll teach you differences.

Have you wisdom?

- Now, my friendly knave, I thank thee.

Here's earnest of thy service.

- Let me hire him too.

Yay!

- Here's my coxcomb.

- How now, my pretty knave.

How dost thou?

- Sirrah, you were best take my coxcomb.

- Why, fool?

- Why?

For taking one's part that's out of favor.

Nay, an thou canst not
smile as the wind sits,

thou'lt catch cold shortly.

There, take my coxcomb.

Why, this fellow has
banished two on his daughters

and did the third a
blessing against his will.

If thou follow him, thou
must needs wear my coxcomb.

How now, nuncle.

Would I had two coxcombs
and two daughters.

- Why, my boy?

- If I gave them all my living,

I'd keep my coxcombs myself.

There's mine.

Beg another of thy daughters.

- Take heed, sirrah, the whip.

- Truth's a dog that must to kennel.

He must be whipped out

when lady the brach may
stand by the fire and stink.

- A pestilent gall to me!

- Sirrah, I'll teach thee a speech.

- Do.

- Mark it, nuncle.

Have more than thou showest,

speak less than thou knowest,

lend less than thou owest,

learn more than thou trowest,

leave thy drink and thy
whore and keep in-a-door,

and thou shalt have more
than two tens to a score.

- This is nothing, fool.

- Then 'tis like the
breath of an unfeed lawyer,

you gave me nothing for it.

Can you make no use of nothing, nuncle?

- Why, no, boy.

Nothing can be made out of nothing.

Prithee, tell
him, so much the rent

of his land comes to.

He will not believe a fool.

- A bitter fool.

- Dost thou know the difference, my boy,

between a bitter fool and a sweet one?

- No, lad, teach me.

- That lord that counseled
thee to give away thy land,

come place him here by me,

do thou for him stand.

The sweet and bitter fool
will presently appear.

The one in motley here,

the other found out there.

- Dost thou call me fool, boy?

- All thy other titles
thou hast given away.

That thou wast born with.

- This is not altogether fool, my lord.

- No, faith, lords and
great men will not let me

have all fool to myself,

they'll be snatching.

Nuncle, give me an egg,

and I'll give thee two crowns.

- What two crowns shall they be?

- Why, after I have cut
the egg in the middle

and eat up the meat,

the two crowns of the egg.

Thou hadst little wit in thy bald crown,

when thou gavest thy golden one away.

♫ Fools had ne'er less grace in a year

♫ For wise men are grown foppish

♫ And know not how their wits to wear

♫ Their manners are so apish

- When were you wont to be
so full of songs, sirrah?

- I have used it, nuncle,

ever since thou madest
thy daughters thy mothers.

For when thou gavest them the rod

and put'st down thine own breeches.

♫ Then they for sudden joy did weep

♫ And I for sorrow sung

♫ That such a king should play bo-peep

♫ And go the fools among.

Prithee, nuncle.

Keep a schoolmaster that
can teach thy fool to lie.

I would fain learn to lie.

- You lie, sirrah, we'll have you whipped.

- I marvel what kin thou
and thy daughters are.

They'll have me whipped for speaking true,

you'll have me whipped for lying

and sometimes I am whipped
for holding my peace.

I had rather be any kind
of thing than a fool

and yet I would not be thee, nuncle.

Thou hast pared thy wit o' both sides

and left nothing in the middle.

Here comes one of the parings.

- How now, daughter.

What makes that frontlet on?

Methinks you are too much
of late in the frown.

- Thou wast a pretty fellow

when thou hadst no need
to care for her frowning.

Now thou art an O without a figure.

I am better than thou art now.

I am a fool, thou art nothing.

Yes, forsooth, I will hold my tongue

so your face bids me

though you say nothing.

Mum, mum.

That's a shelled peascod.

- Not only, sir, this
your all-licensed fool,

but other of your insolent retinue

do hourly carp and quarrel.

Breaking forth in rank and
not-to-be endured riots.

Sir, I had thought, by making
this well known unto you

to have found a safe redress

but now grow fearful

by what yourself too
late have spoke and done.

That you protect this course

and put it on by your allowance

which if you should, the fault
would not escape censure,

nor the redresses sleep,

which might to do you that offense

which else were shame, that then

necessity will call discreet proceeding.

- For, you trow, nuncle,

the hedge-sparrow fed the cuckoo so long,

that it's had it head bit off by it young.

- Are you our daughter?

- Come, sir,

I would you would make
use of that good wisdom,

whereof I know you are fraught

and put away these dispositions

which of late transport you
from what you rightly are.

- May not an ass know when
the cart draws the horse?

Whoop, jug, I love thee.

- Does any here know me?

This is not Lear.

Does Lear walk thus?

Speak thus?

Where are his eyes?

Who is it that can tell me who I am?

- Lear's shadow.

- I would learn that.

For by the marks of sovereignty,
knowledge and reason,

I should be false
persuaded I had daughters.

- Which they will make an obedient father.

- Your name, fair gentlewoman?

- This admiration, sir,

is much of the savor of
other your new pranks.

I do beseech you to
understand my purposes aright.

As you are old and
reverend, should be wise.

Here do you keep a hundred
knights and squires.

Men so disordered, so debauched and bold.

That this our court,
infected with their manners

shows like a riotous inn.

Epicurism and lust make
it more like a tavern

or a brothel than a graced palace.

The shame itself does
speak for instant remedy.

Be then desired by her that else

will take the thing she begs.

A little to disquantity your train

and the remainders that shall still depend

to be such men as may besort your age,

that know themselves and you.

- Darkness and devils!

Saddle my horses.

Call my train together.

Degenerate bastard!

I'll not trouble thee.

Yet have I left a daughter.

- You strike my people

and your disordered rabble
make servants of their betters.

- Woe, that too late repents.

O, sir, are you come?

Is it your will?

Speak, sir.

Prepare my horses.

Ingratitude, thou marble-hearted fiend.

More hideous when thou
show'st thee in a child

than the sea monster!

- Pray, sir, be patient.

- Detested kite!

Thou liest.

My train are men of
choice and rarest parts

that all particulars of duty know

and in the most exact regard

support the worships of their name.

O most small fault,

how ugly didst thou in Cordelia show.

Which like an engine,
wrenched my frame of nature

from the fixed place.

Drew from heart all love

and added to the gall.

O Lear, Lear, Lear!

Beat at this gate, that let thy folly in

and thy dear judgment out!

Go, go, my people.

- My lord, I am guiltless,
as I am ignorant

of what hath moved you.

- It may be so, my lord.

Hear, nature, hear, dear goddess, hear!

Suspend thy purpose,

if thou didst intend to
make this creature fruitful.

Into her womb convey sterility!

Dry up in her the organs of increase

and from her derogate body

never spring a babe to honor her!

If she must teem,

create her child of spleen

that it may live and be a thwart
disnatured torment to her!

Let it stamp wrinkles in her brow of youth

with cadent tears fret
channels in her cheeks.

Turn all her mother's pains and benefits

to laughter and contempt

that she may feel how sharper
than a serpent's tooth it is

to have a thankless child!

Away, away!

Now, gods that we
adore, whereof comes this?

- Never afflict yourself
to know more of it.

But let his disposition have that scope

that dotage gives it.

- What?

50 of my followers at a
clap within a fortnight!

- What's the matter, sir?

- I'll tell thee.

Life and death!

I am ashamed that thou hast
power to shake my manhood

thus with these hot tears.

Old fond eyes,

beweep this cause again,
I'll pluck ye out.

Yea, it is come to this?

- No.

- I have another daughter

who, I am sure, is kind and comfortable.

When she shall hear this of thee

with her nails, she'll
flay thy wolvish visage.

Thou shalt find that I'll resume the shape

which thou dost think I
have cast off forever.

Thou shalt,

I warrant thee.

- Do you mark that, my lord?

- I cannot be so partial, Goneril,

To the great love I bear you--

- Pray you, content.

What, Oswald, ho!

This man hath had good counsel.

A hundred knights.

'Tis politic and safe
to let him keep at point

a hundred knights.

Yes, that, on every dream, each buzz,

each fancy, complaint, dislike.

He may enguard his
dotage with their powers

and hold our lives in mercy.

But Oswald, I say!

- Well, you may fear too far.

- Safer than trust too far.

I know his heart.

What he hath uttered I have writ my sister

if she sustain him and his hundred knights

when I have showed the unfitness.

- Here, madam.

- What, have you writ
that letter to my sister?

- Ay, madame.

- Take you some company and away to horse.

Inform her full of my particular fear

and thereto add such reasons of your own

as may compact it more.

Get you gone

and hasten your return.

No, no, my lord,

This milky gentleness and course of yours

though I condemn not,

yet, under pardon, you
are much more attasked

for want of wisdom than
praised for harmful mildness.

- How far your eyes may
pierce I can not tell.

Striving to better,
oft we mar what's well.

- Nay, then.

- Well, well, the event.

- Go you before to Regan
with these letters.

If your diligence be not
speedy, I be there afore you.

- I will not sleep, my lord,

till I have delivered your letters.

- If a man's brains were in his heels,

were't not in danger of kibes?

- Ay, boy.

- Then, I prithee, be merry.

Thy wit shall not go slip-shod.

- Ha, ha, ha!

- Shalt see thy other
daughter will use thee kindly,

for though she's as like this
as a crab's like an apple,

yet, I can tell what I can tell.

- What canst thou tell, boy?

- She will taste as like this
as a crab does to a crab.

Thou canst tell why one's nose

stands in the middle one's face?

- No.

- Why, to keep one's eyes
of either side's nose?

That what a man cannot
smell out, he may spy into.

- I did her wrong.

- Canst tell how an
oyster makes his shell?

- No.

- Nor I neither.

But I can tell why a snail has a house.

- Why?

- Why, to put his head in.

Not to give it away to his daughters

and leave his horns without a case.

- I will forget my nature.

So kind a father!

Be my horses ready?

- Thy asses are gone about 'em.

The reason why the seven stars

are no more than seven is a pretty reason.

- Because they are not eight?

- Yes, indeed.

Thou wouldst make a good fool.

- To take it again perforce.

Monster ingratitude!

- If thou wert my fool, nuncle,

I'd have thee beaten for
being old before thy time.

- How's that?

- Thou shouldst not have been
old till thou hadst been wise.

- O, let me not be mad.

Not mad.

Sweet heaven

Keep me in temper.

I would not be mad.

How now, the horses ready?

Ready, my lord.

- Come, boy.

Sir, sir, please, sir.

What did I say?

Save thee, Curan.

- And you, sir.

I have been with your father.

Given him notice that the Duke of Cornwall

and Regan his duchess will
be here with him this night.

- How comes that?

- Nay, I know not.

Have you heard of no likely wars

toward 'twixt the Dukes
of Cornwall and Albany?

- Not a word.

- You may do, then, in time.

Fare you well, sir.

- The duke be here tonight?

The better, best!

This weaves itself
perforce into my business.

Briefness and fortune, work.

Brother, a word.

Descend, brother, I say.

My father watches.

O sir, fly this place.

Intelligence is given where you are hid.

You have now the good
advantage of the night.

Have you not spoken against
the Duke of Cornwall?

He's coming hither now, in the night,

in the haste and Regan with him.

Nothing said upon his party
against the Duke of Albany?

Advise yourself.

- I am sure on it, not a word.

- I hear my father coming.

Pardon me, in cunning I
must draw my sword on you.

Seem to defend yourself.

Yield, come before my father!

Light, ho, here!

Brother!

- Torches, torches!

Fly, brother, fly!

So, farewell.

Some blood drawn on me would beget opinion

of my more fierce endeavor.

I have seen drunkards do
more than this in sport.

Father, father!

Stop, stop!

No help?

Now, Edmund,
where's the villain?

- Look, sir, I bleed.

- Where is the villain, Edmund?

- Fled this way, sir.

When by no means he could--
- Pursue him, go after!

Torches!

- By no means what?

- It persuade me to the
murder of your lordship.

- O straight unnatural villain.

I'd never begot him.

- When I dissuaded him from his intent,

I threatened to discover him.

He replied, thou unpossessing bastard!

Who would believe thee?

- Let him fly far.

Not in this land shall he remain uncaught.

That he which finds him
shall deserve our thanks,

bringing the murderous
coward to the stake.

He that conceals him, death.

Hark.

The duke's trumpets.

I know not why he comes.

All ports I'll bar.

The villain shall not escape,
The duke must grant me that.

Besides, his picture I
will send far and near

that all the kingdom may
have the due note of him

and of my land.

Loyal and natural boy,

I'll work the means to make thee capable.

How now, my noble friend!

I have heard strange news.

How dost, my lord?

- O, madam.

My old heart is cracked, it's cracked!

- What, did my father's
godson seek your life?

He whom my father named, your Edgar?

- O, lady, lady, shame would have it hid.

- Was he not companion
with the riotous knights

That tend upon my father?

- I know not, madam.

'Tis too bad, too bad.

- Yes, madam, he was of that consort.

- No marvel, then, though
he were ill affected.

'Tis they have put him
on the old man's death,

to have the expense and
waste of his revenues.

I have this present evening from my sister

been well informed of them.

And with such cautions,

that if they come to sojourn at my house,

I'll not be there.

- Nor I, assure thee, Regan.

Edmund, I hear that you
have shown your father

a child-like office.

'Twas my duty, sir.

- He did reveal the treachery

and received this hurt you
see, striving to apprehend him.

Is he pursued?

Ay, my good lord.

- If he be taken, he
shall never more be feared

of doing harm.

For you, Edmund, you shall be ours.

Natures of such deep
trust we shall much need.

You we first seize upon.

- I shall serve you
truly, sir, however else.

For him I thank your grace.

- You know not why we came to visit you.

- Thus out of season,
threading dark-eyed night.

Occasions, noble
Gloucester, of some poise,

wherein we must have use of your advice.

Our father he hath writ, so
hath our sister of differences,

which I least thought it
fit to answer from our home.

Our good old friend,

lay comforts to your bosom and bestow

your needful counsel to our business.

- I serve you, madam.

Your graces are right welcome.

Edgar!

Edgar!

Edgar!

Show thyself!

Edgar!

- Good dawning to thee, friend.

Art of this house?

Aye.

- Where may we set our horses?

- In the mire.

- Prithee, if thou lovest me, tell me.

- I love thee not.

- Why dost thou use me thus?

I know thee not.

- I know thee.

- What dost thou know me for?

- A knave, a rascal.

A base, proud, shallow, beggarly,

filthy, lily-livered knave.

A whoreson, glass-gazing,
super-serviceable finical rogue.

One that would be a bawd
in way of good service

and art nothing but the
composition of a knave,

beggar, coward, pandar

and the son and heir of a mongrel bitch.

One that I will beat
into clamorous whining

if thou deniest the least
syllable of thy addition.

- Why, what a monstrous fellow art thou,

thus to rail on one

that is neither known
of thee nor knows thee!

- What a brazen-faced varlet art thou

to deny thou knowest me.

Is it two days ago since
I tripped up thy heels

and beat thee before the king?

Draw, you rogue.

For, though it be night.

Oh, the moon shines.

I'll make a sop of the moonshine o' you.

Draw, you whoreson cullionly
barber-monger, draw!

- Away!

I have nothing to do with thee.

- Draw, you rascal.

You come with letters against the king.

Draw!

Or I'll so carbonado your shanks.

- Help, ho, murder, help!

- Strike, slave.

You stand, you neat slave, strike.

Help, ho!

Murder, murder!

- With you, goodman boy, an you please.

Come, I'll flesh ye.

Come on, young master.

- Keep peace, upon your lives.

He dies that strikes again!

What is the matter?

- The messengers from
our sister and the king.

- What is your difference?

Speak.

- I am scarce in breath, my lord.

- Well, no marvel.

You have so bestirred your
valor, you cowardly rascal.

Nature disclaims in thee,

a tailor made thee.

- Thou art a strange fellow.

A tailor make a man?

- Ay sir, a tailor.

A stone-cutter or painter
could not have made him so ill,

though he had been but
two years at the trade.

- Speak yet, how grew your quarrel?

- This ancient ruffian, sir,

whose life I have spared
at suit of his gray beard.

- Thou whoreson zed!

Thou unnecessary letter!

My lord, if you will give me leave,

I'll tread this unbolted
villain into mortar

and daub the walls of a house with him.

Spare my gray beard, you wagtail?

- Now peace, sirrah!

You beastly knave, know you no reverence?

- Yes, yes sir.

But anger has a privilege.

- Why art thou angry?

- That such a slave as
that should wear a sword,

who wears no honesty.

I smile you my speeches, as I were a fool?

A plague upon your epileptic visage!

- Why, art thou mad, old fellow?

- How fell you out?

Say that.

- No contraries hold more
antipathy than I and such a knave.

- Why dost thou call him a knave?

What is his fault?

- His countenance likes me not.

- No more, perchance, does
mine, nor his, nor hers.

- Sir, 'tis my occupation to be plain.

I have seen better faces in my time

than stands on any shoulder
that I see before me

at this instant.

- This is some fellow,

who having been praised for bluntness,

doth affect a saucy roughness.

He cannot flatter, he,
he must speak truth!

- Sir, in good faith, in sincere verity,

under the allowance of your great aspect.

- What mean'st by this?

- To go out of my accent

which you discommend so much.

I know, sir, I am no flatterer.

- What was the offense you gave him?

- I never gave him any.

It pleased the king,
his master of very late

to strike at me upon his misconstruction.

When he, flattering his displeasure,

tripped me behind, being
down, insulted, railed

and put upon him such a deal of man

that worthied him, got
praises of the king.

- Fetch forth the stocks!

You stubborn ancient knave,
you reverend braggart.

We'll teach you.

- Sir, I am too old to learn.

Call not your stocks for me,

I serve the king.

You shall do small respect,

show too bold malice against the grace

and person of my master,

stocking his messenger.

- Fetch forth the stocks!

As I have life and honor!

There shall he sit till noon!

- Till noon?

Till night, my lord

and all night too.

- Madam, if I.

If I were your father's dog,

you should not use me so.

- Sir, being his knave, I will.

Come, bring away the stocks!

- Let me beseech your grace not to do so.

The king, his master
needs must to take it ill,

that he's so slightly
valued in his messenger,

should have him thus restrained.

- I'll answer that.

- My sister may receive
it much more worse,

to have her gentleman abused, assaulted.

Put in his legs.

- Come, my good lord, away.

Ha!

- I am sorry for thee, friend,
'tis the duke's pleasure

whose disposition, all
the world well knows

will not be rubbed nor stopped.

I'll entreat for thee.

- I don't pray.

Pray, do not, sir.

I've watched and traveled hard.

Sometime I'll sleep out,
the rest I'll whistle.

Give you good morrow.

- The duke's to blame in
this, 'twill be ill taken.

- Approach, thou beacon
to this under globe.

That by thy comfortable beams
I may peruse this letter.

Nothing almost sees miracles but misery.

I know 'tis from Cordelia,

who hath most fortunately been informed

of my obscured course.

I shall find time from
this monstrous state

to give losses their remedies.

Fortune, good night.

Smile once more.

Turn thy wheel!

- I heard myself proclaimed,

and by the happy hollow of
a tree escaped the hunt.

No port is free.

No place, that guard and
most unusual vigilance

does not attend my taking.

Whiles I may escape, I
will preserve myself.

And am bethoughts to take the
basest and most poorest shape

that ever penury, in contempt of man,

brought near to beast.

My face I'll grime with filth.

I'll blanket my loins.

I'll elf all my hair in knots

and with presented
nakedness out-face the winds

and persecutions of the sky.

The country gives me proof and
precedent of Bedlam beggars,

who, with roaring voices,

strike in their numbed
and mortified bare arms,

pins, wooden pricks,

nails, sprigs of rosemary

and with this horrible
object from low farms,

poor pelting villages,
sheep-cotes, and mills,

sometime with lunatic bans,

sometime with prayers,

enforce their charity.

Poor Turlygod!

Poor Tom!

Poor Turlygod.

- Poor Tom.

That's something yet,

Edgar I nothing am.

- 'Tis strange that they
should so depart from home

and not send back my messenger.

- As I learned the night before,

there was no purpose
in them of this remove.

- Hail to thee, noble master!

- Ha!

Makest thou this shame thy pastime?

No, my lord.

- Hoo-hoo, look!

He wears cruel garters.

Horses are tied by the head,
dogs and bears by the neck,

monkeys by the loins and men by the legs.

When a man's over-lusty at legs,

then he wears wooden nether-stocks.

- What's he that hath so much thy place

mistook to set thee here?

- It is both he and she, my lord.

Your son and daughter.

- No.

No, I say.

I say, yea.

- By Jupiter, I swear, no.

- By Juno, I swear, ay.

- They durst not do it, they could not,

would not do it.

'Tis worse than murder to do upon respect

such violent outrage.

Resolve me with all modest haste,

which way thou mightst deserve

or they impose this usage coming from us.

- My lord, when at their house,

I did commend your
highness' letters to them.

Came there a reeking post,

from Goneril delivering letters

which presently they read,

straight took horse, commanded
me to follow and attend.

And meeting here the fellow which of late

displayed so saucily
against your highness.

Having more man than wit about me, I drew.

He raised the house with
loud and coward cries.

Your son and daughter found

this trespass worth the
shame which here it suffers.

- Winter's not gone yet if
the wild geese fly that way.

- Where is this daughter?

With the earl, sir, here within.

- Follow me not.

Stay here.

- Made you no more offense
but what you speak of?

- None.

How chance the king comes
with so small a number?

- And thou hadst been set in
the stocks for that question,

thou hadst well deserved it.

- Why, fool?

- All that follow their
noses are led by their eyes

but blind men

and there's not a nose among 20

but can smell him that's stinking.

Let go thy hold when a great
wheel runs down a hill,

lest it break thy neck with the following

but the great one that goes
up, let him draw thee after.

When a wise man gives thee better counsel,

give me mine again.

- Where learned you this, fool?

- Well, I'm not in the stocks, fool.

- Deny to speak with me?

They are sick?

They are weary?

They have traveled all the night?

Fetch me a better answer.

- My dear lord, you know the
fiery quality of the duke.

How unremovable and fixed
he is in his own course.

- Vengeance, plague, death, confusion!

Fiery?

What quality?

Why, Gloucester, Gloucester,

I'd speak with the Duke
of Cornwall and his wife.

Well, my good
lord, I have informed them so.

- Informed them?

Dost thou understand me, man?

Ay, my good lord.

- The king would speak with Cornwall.

The dear father would
with his daughter speak,

commands tens service.

Are they informed of this?

My breath and blood!

Fiery?

The fiery duke?

Tell the hots duke that.

But no.

Not yet.

Maybe he is not well.

We are not ourselves when
nature being oppressed

commands the mind to suffer with the body.

I'll forbear.

Death on my state.

Wherefore should he sit here?

Give me my servant forth.

Go tell the duke and his
wife I'd speak with them.

Now!

Presently!

Bid them come forth and hear me

or at their chamber
door, I'll beat the drum

till it cry sleep to death.

- Would have all well betwixt you.

- O me, my heart, my
rising heart but down.

- Cry to it, nuncle, as
the cockney did to the eels

when she put 'em in the paste alive.

She knapped 'em on the
coxcombs with a stick

and cried, down, wantons, down!

- Good morrow to you both.

Hail to your grace!

I am glad to see your highness.

- Regan, I think you are.

I know what reason I have to think so.

If thou shouldst not be glad,

I would divorce me from thy mother's tomb

sepulchering an adulteress.

O, are you free?

Some other time for that.

Beloved Regan,

thy sister's naught.

O Regan, she hath tied
sharp-toothed unkindness,

like a vulture, here.

I can scarce speak to thee.

Thou'lt not believe with
how depraved a quality.

O Regan!

- I pray you, sir, take patience.

I have hope.

You less know how to value her desert

than she to scant her duty.

- Say, how is that?

- I cannot think my sister in the least

would fail her obligation.

If, sir, perchance

she have restrained the
riots of your followers,

'tis on such ground do such wholesome end

as clears her from all blame.

- My curses on her!

- O, sir, you are old.

Nature in you stands on the
very verge of her confine.

You should be ruled and led

by some discretion that
discerns your state

better than you yourself.

Therefore, I pray you

that to our sister you do make return.

Say you have wronged her, sir.

- Ask her forgiveness?

Do you but mark how
this becomes the house.

Dear daughter, I confess I
am old age is unnecessary.

And on my knees I beg
that you'll vouchsafe me

raiment, bed and food.

- Sir, these are unsightly tricks.

Return you to my sister.

- Never, Regan!

She hath abated me of half my train.

Looked black upon me,

struck me with her tongue

most serpent-like upon the very heart.

All the stored vengeances of heaven

fall on her ingrateful top!

Strike her young bones,

you taking airs with lameness!

Fie, sir, fie!

- You nimble lightnings,
dart your blinding flames

into her scornful eyes!

Infect her beauty, you fen-sucked fogs

drawn by the powerful sun

to fall and blister.

- O the blessed gods!

So will you wish on me
when the rash mood is on.

- No, Regan, thou shalt
never have my curse.

Thy tender-hefted nature

shall not give thee o'er to harshness.

Her eyes are fierce but thine
do comfort and not burn.

'Tis not in thee to grudge my pleasures,

to cut off my train,

to bandy hasty words, to scant my sizes.

Thy half of the kingdom
thou hast not forgot

wherein I thee endowed.

- Good sir, to the purpose.

Who put my man

in the stocks?

What trumpet's that?

- My sister's, I know't.

This approves her letter
she would soon be here.

Is your lady come?

- This is a slave, whose
easy-borrowed pride

dwells in the fickle
grace of her he follows.

Out, varlet, from my sight!

What means your grace?

- Who stocked my servant?

Regan, I have good hope
thou didst not know on it.

Who comes here?

O heavens,

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!

Art not ashamed to look upon this beard?

O Regan, wilt thou take her by the hand?

- Why not by the hand, sir?

How have I offended?

All's not offense that indiscretion finds

and dotage terms so.

- O sides, you are too tough.

Will you yet hold?

How came my man in the stocks?

- I set him there, sir.

But his own disorders deserved
much less advancement.

- You!

Did you?

- I pray you, father, being weak, seem so.

Till the expiration of your month,

you will return and
sojourn with my sister,

dismissing half your
train, come then to me.

I am now from home and
out of that provision.

- Return to her, and 50 men dismissed?

No, rather I abjure all roofs,

and choose to wage against
the enmity of the air,

to be a comrade with the wolf and owl.

Necessity's sharp pinch!

Return with her?

Persuade me rather to be slave

and sumpter to this detested groom.

- At your choice, sir.

- I prithee, daughter, do not make me mad.

I will not trouble thee,
my child, farewell.

We'll no more meet, no
more see one another.

But yet thou art my flesh,

my blood, my daughter.

Or rather a disease that's in my flesh

which I must needs call mine.

Thou art a boil, a plague-sore

or embossed carbuncle
in my corrupted blood

but I'll not chide thee.

Mend when thou canst.

Be better at thy leisure.

I can be patient.

I can stay with Regan.

I and my hundred knights.

- Not altogether so.

I looked not for you yet

nor am provided for your fit welcome.

Give ear, sir, to my sister.

For those that mingle
reason with your passion

must be content to think you old.

She knows what she does.

- Is this well spoken?

- I dare avouch it, sir.

What?

50 followers?

Is it not well?

What should you need of more?

Yea, or so many, sith that
both charge and danger

speak 'gainst so great a number?

How, in one house, can many people

under two commands hold amity?

'Tis hard, almost impossible.

- Why might not you, my lord,

receive attendance from those

that she calls servants or from mine?

- Why not, my lord?

If then they chanced to slack
you, we could control them.

If you will come to me,

for now I spy a danger.

I entreat you to bring but five and 20,

to no more will I give place or notice.

- I gave you all.

- And in good time you gave it.

- Made you my guardians, my depositaries,

but kept a reservation to be
followed with such a number.

What, must I come to you
with five and 20, Regan?

Said you so?

- And speak't again, my lord.

No more with me.

- Those wicked creatures
yet do look well-favored

when others are more wicked.

Not being the worst stands
in some rank of praise.

I'll go with thee.

Thy 50 yet doth double five and 20,

and thou art twice her love.

- Hear me, my lord.

What need you five and 20, 10 or five

to follow in a house where twice so many

have a command to tend you?

- What need one?

- O, reason not the need.

Our basest beggars are in the
poorest thing superfluous.

Allow not nature more than nature needs,

man's life's as cheap as beast's.

Thou art a lady.

If only to go warm were gorgeous,

why, nature needs not
what thou gorgeous wear'st

which scarcely keeps thee warm.

But for true need.

You heavens, give me that
patience, patience I need!

You see me here, you gods, a poor old man

as full of grief as age.

Wretched in both!

If it be you that stirs
these daughters' hearts

against their father,

fool me not so much to bear it tamely.

Touch me with noble anger,

and let not women's weapons, water-drops,

stain my man's cheeks!

No!

You unnatural hags.

I will have such revenges on you both

that all the world shall.

I will do such things.

What they are, yet I know not

but they shall be the
terrors of the earth.

You think I'll weep?

No, I'll not weep.

I have full cause of weepings

but this heart will break
into a hundred thousand flaws

or ere I'll weep.

O fool,

I shall go mad!

Let us withdraw,

'twill be a storm.

- This house is little.

The old man and his people
cannot be well bestowed.

- 'Tis his own blame,

hath put himself from rest

and must needs taste his folly.

- For his particular,
I'll receive him gladly,

but not one follower.

- So am I purposed.

Where is my lord of Gloucester?

- Followed the old man forth.

He is returned.

The king is in high rage.

Whither is he gone?

- He calls to horse but
will I know not whither.

- 'Tis best to give him way.

He leads himself.

My lord, entreat
him by no means to stay.

- Alack, the night comes
on and the high winds

do sorely ruffle

for many miles about
there's scarce a bush.

- O, sir, to wilful men,

the injuries that they themselves procure

must be their schoolmasters.

Shut up your doors.

He is attended with a desperate train.

And what they may incense him to,

being apt to have his ear
abused, wisdom bids fear.

Shut up your doors, my lord,

'tis a wild night:

My Regan counsels well.

Come out o' the storm!

- Blow, winds and crack your cheeks!

Rage, blow!

You cataracts and hurricanoes,

spout till you have drenched our steeples

drowned the cocks!

You sulphurous and
thought-executing fires,

vaunt-couriers to
oak-cleaving thunderbolts,

singe my white head!

And thou, all-shaking thunder,

smite flat the thick
rotundity o' the world!

Crack nature's moulds,

an germens spill at once
that make ingrateful man!

- O nuncle, court
holy-water in a dry house

is better than this
rain-water out o' doors.

Good nuncle, in, and ask
thy daughters' blessing.

Here's a night pities
neither wise man nor fools.

- Rumble thy bellyful!

Spit fire!

Spout rain!

Nor rain, wind, thunder,
fire are my daughters.

I tax not you, you
elements, with unkindness.

I never gave you kingdom,
called you children.

You owe me no subscription,

by then, let fall your horrible pleasure.

Here I stand, your slave.

A poor, infirm, weak and despised old man.

But yet, I call you servile ministers,

that will with two pernicious daughters

joined your high engendered
battles 'gainst a head

so old and white as this.

O, 'tis foul!

- He that has a house to put's head in

has a good head-piece.

- No, I will be the
pattern of all patience.

I will say nothing.

Alas, sir, are you here?

Things that love night,

love not such nights as these.

- 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 undivulged crimes,

unwhipped of justice.

Cry these dreadful summoners grace.

I am a man more sinned
against than sinning!

- Alack, bare-headed!

Good my lord.

Hard by here is a hovel.

Some friendship will it lend
you 'gainst the tempest.

Repose you there while
I to this hard house

which even but now, demanding after you,

denied me to come in.

Return and force their scanted courtesy.

- My wits begin to turn.

Come on, my boy.

How dost, my boy?

Art cold?

I am cold myself.

Where is this straw, my fellow?

Come.

- The art of our necessities is strange

and can make vile things precious.

Come, your hovel.

Poor fool and knave,

I have one part in my heart
that's sorry yet for thee.

Come, bring us to this hovel.

♫ Must make content with his fortunes fit

♫ For the rain it raineth every day.

- True, boy.

- Alack, alack, Edmund.

I like not this unnatural dealing.

When I desire their leave
that I might pity him,

they took from me the
use of mine own house.

Charged me on pain of their
perpetual displeasure,

neither to speak of him, entreat for him

or any way sustain him.

- Savage and unnatural!

- Go to, say you nothing!

I have received a letter this night.

'Tis dangerous to be spoken.

I've locked the letter in my closet.

These injuries the king now
bears will be revenged home.

There's part of a power already landed.

We must incline to the king.

I will look him and privily relieve him.

Go you and maintain talk with the duke

that my charity be not of him perceived.

If he ask for me,

I am ill and gone to bed.

Though I die for it.

As no less is threatened me,

the king my old master must be relieved.

There is strange thing toward, Edmund.

Pray you, be careful.

- This courtesy, forbid thee,

shall the duke instantly know

and that letter too.

This seems a fair deserving

and must draw me that
which my father loses.

No less than all,

the younger rises when the old doth fall.

Here is the place, my lord.

Good my lord, enter.

Let me alone.

- Good my lord, enter here.

- Wilt break my heart?

- I had rather break mine own.

Good my lord, enter.

The tyranny of the open night's too rough

for nature to endure.

- So 'tis to thee.

But where the greater malady is fixed,

the lesser is scarce felt.

When the mind's free, the body's delicate.

This tempest in my mind

doth from my senses take all feeling else

save what beats there.

Filial ingratitude!

But I will punish home.

No, I will weep no more.

In such a night to shut me out!

Pour on, I will endure.

In such a night as this?

O Regan, Goneril!

Your old kind father whose
frank heart gave all.

O, that way madness lies.

Let me shun that, no more of that.

- Good my lord, enter here.

- Prithee, go in thyself,
seek thine own ease.

This tempest will not give me leave

to ponder on things would hurt me more.

But I'll go in.

In, boy, go first.

You houseless poverty, nay.

Get thee in.

I'll pray and then I'll sleep.

Poor naked wretches,

whereso'er you are that bide the pelting

of this pitiless storm.

How shall your houseless
heads and unfed sides,

your looped and windowed raggedness

defend you from seasons such as these?

O, I have ta'en too little care of this!

Take physic, pomp.

Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel,

that thou mayst shake
the superflux to them

and show the heavens more just.

Help me, help me!

Give me thy hand.

Who's there?

- A spirit, a spirit.

He says his name's poor Tom.

- What art thou that dost
grumble there in the straw?

Come forth.

- Away!

The foul fiend, it follows me!

Through the sharp hawthorn
blows the cold wind.

Go to thy cold bed and warm thee.

- Didst thou give all to thy daughters?

And art thou come to this?

- Who gives any thing to poor Tom?

Whom the foul fiend hath led
through fire and through flame.

Through ford and whirlpool

over bog and quagmire
that hath laid knives

under his pillow.

Set ratsbane by his porridge.

Made a proud of heart and,

bless thy five wits!

Tom's a-cold.

O, do de, do de, do de.

Do poor Tom some charity

whom the foul fiend vexes

and, there can I have him?

And there and there again,

and there.

- Have his daughters
brought him to this pass?

Couldst thou save nothing?

Didst thou give them all?

- Nay, he reserved a blanket.

Else we had been all shamed.

- Now, all the plagues
that in the pendulous air,

light on thy daughters!

He hath no daughters, sir.

- Death, traitor!

Nothing could have subdued nature

to such a lowness but
his unkind daughters.

Is it the fashion, that discarded fathers

should have thus little
mercy on their flesh?

Judicious punishment!

'Twas this flesh begot
those pelican daughters.

♫ Pillicock sat on Pillicock-hill.

- This cold night will turn
us all to fools and madmen.

- Take heed o' the foul fiend.

Obey thy parents, keep thy word justly.

Swear not, commit not
with man's sworn spouse.

Tom's a-cold.

- What hast thou been?

- A serving-man,

proud in heart and mind,

I served the lust of my mistress' heart

and did the act of darkness with her.

I swore as many oaths as I spake words

and I broke them in the
sweet face of heaven.

One that slept in the contriving
of lust and waked to do it.

Wine loved I deeply, dice dearly,

and in woman I out-paramored the Turk.

False of heart, light
of ear, bloody of hand,

hog in sloth, fox in stealth,

wolf in greediness, dog in madness,

lion in prey.

Keep thy foot out of brothels,

thy hand out of plackets,
thy pen from lenders' books

and defy the foul fiend.

- Thou wert better in thy grave

than to answer with
thy uncovered body this

extremity of the skies.

Is man no more than this?

Consider him well.

Thou owest the worm no silk,

the beast no hide,

the sheep no wool, the cat no perfume, ha!

Here's three on's ours a sophisticated.

Thou art the thing itself.

Unaccommodated man is no
more but such a poor bare,

forked animal as thou art.

Off, off, you lendings!

Come unbutton here.

Prithee, nuncle, be contented.

'Tis a naughty night to swim in.

Look, here comes a walking fire.

This is the foul
fiend Flibbertigibbet.

Hurts the poor creature of earth!

- How fares your grace?

- What's he?

- Who are you?

What is't you seek?

What are you there?

Your names?

Poor Tom that eats
the swimming frog, the toad,

drinks the green mantle
of the standing pool

who is whipped, stocked
punished and imprisoned.

Peace, thou fiend!

- What, hath your grace no better company?

- The prince of darkness is a gentleman.

- Our flesh and blood,
my lord, is grown so vile

that it doth hate what gets it.

Tom's a-cold.

Great, go in with me.

- First, let me talk
with this philosopher.

What is the cause of thunder?

- Good my lord, take his offer,

go into the house.

- I'll talk a word with
this same learned Theban.

What is your study?

- How to prevent the
fiend and to kill vermin.

- Let me ask you one word in private.

- Importune him once more, my lord, to go,

his wits begin to unsettle.

- Canst thou blame him?

His daughters seek his death.

Ah, that good Kent!

He said it would be
thus, poor banished man.

Thou say'st the king grows mad,

I'll tell thee, friend,
I am almost mad myself

I had a son, now outlawed from my blood.

He sought my life,

but lately, very late,

I loved him, friend.

No father his son dearer,

truth to tell thee the
grief hath crazed my wits.

What a night's this.

I do beseech your grace.

- O, cry your mercy, sir.

Noble philosopher, your company.

Tom's a-cold.

In, fellow,
there, keep thee warm.

Come let's in all.

- This way, my lord.

- With him, I will keep
still with my philosopher.

Good my lord, soothe him,

let him take the fellow.

- Take him you on.

- Come on, sirrah.

Come along with us.

Come, good Athenian.

No words, no words.

- I will have my revenge
ere I depart his house.

- This is the letter he spoke of

which approves him an intelligent party

to the invasion by France.

If this treason were not,
or not I the detector!

- No with me to the duchess.

- If the matter of this paper be certain,

you have mighty business in hand.

- True or false, it hath
made thee earl of Gloucester.

Here is
better than the open air.

Take it thankfully.

I will piece out the comfort

with what addition I can.

- All the power of his wits

have given way to his impatience.

- I will not be long from you.

- The gods reward your kindness.

- Nero is an angler
in the lake of darkness.

Pray, innocent and beware the foul fiend.

- To have a thousand
with red burning spits

come hissing in upon 'em.

- The foul fiend bites my back.

- It shall be done.

I will arraign them straight.

Come, sit thou here,
most learned justicer.

Thou, sapient sir, sit here.

Now, she foxes!

- Look, where he stands and glares!

- Come ere to grace.

Stand you not so amazed.

Will you lie down and
rest upon the cushions?

- I'll see their trial first.

Bring in the evidence.

Thou robed man of justice, take thy place.

And thou, his yoke-fellow of equity,

bench by his side.

You are o' the commission,

Sit you too.

- Let us deal justly.

- Arraign her first,

'tis Goneril.

I here take my oath before
this honorable assembly.

She kicked the poor king, her father.

- Come hither, gentlewoman.

Is your name Goneril?

- She cannot deny it.

- Cry you mercy, I took
you for a joint-stool.

- And here's another, whose warped looks

proclaim what store her heart is made on.

Stop her there!

Arms, arms, sword, fire!

Corruption in the place!

False justicer, why hast
thou let her escape?

Bless thy five wits!

- O pity sir!

Where is the patience now

that thou so oft have boasted to retain?

- The little dogs and all,
Tray, Blanch, and Sweetheart,

see, they bark at me.

- Tom will throw his head at them.

Avaunt, you curs!

- Then let them anatomize Regan.

See what breeds about her heart.

Is there any cause in nature
that makes these hard hearts?

You, sir, I entertain
for one of my hundred.

Only I do not like the
fashion of your garments.

You will say they are Persian

but let them be changed.

- Come, sir.

Lie here and rest awhile.

- Make no noise, make no noise.

Draw the curtains.

So, so.

We'll go to supper in the morning.

- And I'll go to bed at noon.

Where
is the king my master?

- He's here, my lord.

But trouble him not, his wits are gone.

- Good friend, I prithee,
a plot of death upon him.

There is a litter ready,

lay him in it and drive
towards Dover, friend,

take up thy master!

If thou shouldst dally half an hour,

his life, with thine and
all that offer to defend him

stand in assured loss.

- Oppressed nature sleeps.

This rest might yet have
balmed thy broken senses.

Come, my lord.

My lord, come, come.

Help to bear thy master.

Thou must not stay behind.

Come, come, away.

- Who alone suffers
suffers most in the mind,

leaving free things
and happy shows behind.

But then the mind much
sufferance doth o'er skip

when grief hath mates and fellowship.

How light and portable my pain seems now

when that which makes me bend

makes the king bow,

He childed as I fathered!

Tom, away.

What more shall tonight?

Safe escape the king.

- Post speedily to my lord, your husband.

Show him this letter.

The army of France is landed.

Seek out the traitor, Gloucester.

- Hang him instantly.

- Pluck out his eyes!

- Leave him to my displeasure.

Edmund, keep you our sister company.

The revenges we are bound

to take upon your traitorous father

are not fit for your beholding.

Advise the duke to a most
war-like preparation,

we are bound to the like.

Our posts shall be swift
and intelligent betwixt us.

Farewell, dear sister.

Farewell, my lord of Gloucester.

How now!

Where's the king?

- My lord of Gloucester
hath conveyed him hence.

Some five or six and 30 of his knights

are gone with him towards Dover,

where they boast to
have well-armed friends.

Get horses for your mistress.

Farewell,
sweet lord, and sister.

- Edmund, farewell.

Go seek the traitor Gloucester,

bring him before us,
pinion him like a thief.

Though well we may not pass upon his life

without the form of justice,

yet our power shall do
a courtesy to our wrath.

Who's there?

The traitor!

Ingrateful fox!, 'tis he!

Bind fast his corky arms.

- What mean your graces?

Good my friends, consider
you are my guests.

Do me no foul play, friends.

- Bind him, I say.

- Hard, hard!

O filthy traitor!

- Unmerciful lady as you are, I'm none.

- To this chair, bind him.

Villain, thou shalt find--

- Gods, 'tis most ignobly
done to pluck me by the beard!

- So white and such a traitor!

- I am your host!

What will you do?

- Come, sir.

What letters had you late from France?

- Be simple answer for we know the truth.

- And what confederacy
have you with the traitors

now landed in the kingdom?

- To whose hands have you
sent the lunatic king?

Speak!

- I have a letter guessingly sets down,

which came from one
that's of a neutral heart

and not from one opposed.

- Cunning.

- And false.

- Where hast thou sent the king?

- To Dover.

- Wherefore to Dover?

Wast thou not charged at peril--

- Wherefore to Dover?

Let him first answer that.

- Because I would not see thy cruel nails

pluck out his poor old eyes

but I shall see the winged
vengeance overtake such children.

- See it shalt thou never.

Fellows, hold the chair.

Upon these eyes of thine
will I set my foot.

One side will
mock another, the other too.

- If you see vengeance--

- Hold your hand, my lord.

I have served you ever since I was a child

but better service have I never done

than now to bid you hold.

- How now, you dog!

- My servant!

- Come on and take the chance of anger.

- Give me your sword.

A peasant stand up thus!

- Out, vile jelly!

Where is thy luster now?

- Where's my son Edmund?

- Thou call'st on him that hates thee.

It was he that made the
overture of thy treasons to us.

Who is too good to pity thee.

- O my follies!

Then Edgar was abused.

- Go thrust him out at gates

and let him smell his way to Dover.

How is it, my lord?

How look you?

- I have received the hurt.

Follow me, lady.

Throw this slave upon the dunghill.

Regan, I bleed apace.

Most untimely comes this hurt.

Give me your arm.

- Yet better thus, and
known to be despised,

than still despised than flattered.

To be worst, the lowest and
most dejected thing of fortune

stands still in hope it lives not in fear.

The lamentable change is from the best.

The worst returns to laughter.

Come, my lord.

- Who comes here?

My father, poorly led?

World, world, oh world!

Away, get thee away!

- O, my good lord,

I have been your tenant
and your father's tenant

these many years.

- Good friend, be gone.

Thy comforts can do me no good at all,

thee they may hurt.

- You cannot see your way.

- I have no way and
therefore want no eyes.

I stumbled when I saw.

Oh dear son Edgar,

the food of thy abused father's wrath.

Might I but live to see thee in my touch,

I'd say I had eyes again.

How now, who's there?

Oh gods!

Who is it can say I am at the worst?

I am worse than ever I was.

- 'Tis poor mad Tom.

- And worse I may be yet, the worst

is not so long as we can
say this is the worst.

- Fellow, where goest?

Is it a beggar-man?

- No, my lord.

Madman and beggar too.

- With the last night's
storm I such a fellow saw.

Which made me think a man a worm, my son.

Came then into my mind and yet my mind

was then scarce friends with him.

I have heard more since.

As flies to wanton boys,
are we to the gods.

They kill us for their sport.

- Bless thee, master!

- Is that the naked fellow?

Aye, my lord.

- In the way and bring some
covering for this naked soul,

which I'll entreat to lead me.

- Alack, sir, he is mad.

'Tis the times' plague

when madmen lead the blind.

- I'll bring him the
best 'parel that I have.

Come on't what will.

Sirrah, naked fellow.

- Poor Tom's a-cold.

I cannot daub it further.

- Come hither, fellow.

- Yet I must.

Bless thy sweet eyes, they bleed.

- Knowest thou the way to Dover?

- Both stile and gate,
horse-way and foot-path.

Poor Tom hath been scared
out of his good wits.

And bless thee, good man's
son from the foul fiend.

- Here, take this purse.

That I am wretched makes thee the happier.

But heavens, deal so still.

Let the superfluous and lust-dieted man

that slaves your ordinance

that will not see
because he does not feel,

feel your power quickly.

So distribution should undo excess,

and each man have enough.

Dost thou know Dover?

- Aye, master.

- There is a cliff, whose
high and bending head

looks fearfully in the confined deep.

Bring me but to the very brim of it.

From that place I shall no leading need.

- Give me thy arm.

Poor Tom shall lead thee.

Welcome, my lord.

I marvel our mild husband
not met us on the way.

Now, where's your master'?

- Madam, within but never man so changed.

I told him of the army that was landed,

he smiled at it.

I told him you were coming,
his answer was, the worse.

Of Gloucester's treachery

and of the loyal service of his son,

when I informed him then he called me sot,

and told me I had turned
the wrong side out.

- Then shall you go no further.

It is the cowish terror of his spirit

that dares not undertake.

Our wishes on the way may prove effects.

Back, Edmund, to my brother.

Hasten his musters and conduct his powers.

I must change knaves at home

and give the distaff
into my husband's hands.

This trusty servant shall pass between us.

Ere long you are like to hear

if you dare venture in your own behalf,

a mistress's command.

Wear this, spare speech.

Decline your head.

This kiss, if it durst speak,

would stretch thy spirits up into the air.

Conceive and fare thee well.

- Yours in the ranks of death.

- My most dear Gloucester!

Oh, the difference of man and man!

To thee a woman's services are due.

The fool usurps my fit.

Madam, here comes my lord.

- I have been worth the whistling.

- O Goneril!

You are not worth the dust

which the rude wind blows in your face.

- No more, the text is foolish.

- Your wisdom and goodness
to the vile seem vile.

What have you done?

Tigers, not daughters,
what have you performed?

A father and a gracious aged man.

- Milk-livered man!

That bearest a cheek for
blows, a head for wrongs.

Where's thy drum?

France spreads his banners
in our noiseless land

whiles thou, a moral fool, sits still

and cries alack, why does he so?

- See thyself, devil!

- Oh vain fool!

- Were't my fitness to let
these hands obey my blood.

They were apt enough to dislocate

and tear thy flesh and bones.

Howe'er thou art a fiend, a
woman's shape doth shield thee.

- Marry, your manhood.

My lord!

- What news?

- The Duke of Cornwall's dead.

Slain by his servant,

going to put out the
other eye of Gloucester.

- Gloucester's eye?

- This letter, madam,
craves a speedy answer.

'Tis from your sister.

- One way I like this well but being widow

and my Gloucester with her.

I'll read and answer.

- Where was his son when
they did take his eyes?

- Come with my lady hither.

- He is not here.

No, my good lord.

I met him back again.

- Knows he the wickedness?

- Aye, my good lord.

'Twas he informed against him

and quit the house on purpose

that their punishment might
have the freer course.

- Gloucester, I live to thank thee

for the love thou show'dst the king

and to revenge thine eyes.

Come hither, friend,

tell me what more thou knowest.

- Alack, 'tis he.

Why, he was met even now
as mad as the vexed sea,

singing aloud, crowned with rank hemlock,

nettles, cuckoo-flowers
and all the idle weeds

that grow in our sustaining corn.

Send forth, search every
acre in the high-grown field

and bring him to our eye.

What can man's wisdom do to
restore his bereaved sense?

He that helps him take
all my outward worth.

- There is means, madam.

Our foster nurse of nature is repose,

the which he lacks,

that to provoke in him
are many herbs operative

whose power will close the eye of anguish.

- All blest secrets.

All you unpublished virtues of the earth,

spring with my tears!

Be aidant and remediate in
the good man's distress.

Seek, seek for him.

- News, madam.

The British powers are
marching hitherward.

- Our preparation stands
in expectation of them.

Oh dear father,

it is thy business that I go about.

No blown ambition doth our arms incite

but love, dear love, and
our aged father's right.

Soon may I hear and see him.

But are my
brother's powers set forth?

Ay, madam.

Himself in person there?

Madam, with much ado.

Your sister is the better soldier.

- Lord Edmund spake not
with your lord at home?

- No, madam.

- What might import my
sister's letter to him?

- I know not, lady.

- Faith.

'Twas great ignorance,
Gloucester's eyes being out,

to let him live.

Edmund, I think, is gone to
dispatch his nighted life.

- I must needs after him,
madam, with my letter.

- Our troops set forth tomorrow.

Stay with us, the ways are dangerous.

- I may not, madam.

My lady charged my duty in this business.

- Why should she write to Edmund?

Might not you transport
her purposes by word?

Belike, something I know not what.

I'll love thee much,

let me unseal the letter.

- Madam, I had rather--

- I know your lady does
not love her husband.

Of that, I'm sure.

And at her late being here she gave most

speaking looks to noble Edmund.

I know you are of her bosom.

- I, madam?

- I speak in understanding,
you are, I know't.

Therefore I do advise you, take this note.

My lord is dead.

Edmund and I have talked

and more convenient is he for
my hand than for your lady's.

You may gather more.

If you do see him, give him this.

And when your mistress
hears thus much from you,

I pray, desire her call her wisdom to her.

So, fare you well.

If you do chance to hear
of that blind traitor,

preferment falls on him that cuts him off.

- Would I could meet him, madam.

I should show what party I do follow.

- Fare thee well.

- When shall we come to
the top of that same hill?

- You do climb up it now.

Look, how we labor.

- Methinks the ground is even.

- Horrible steep.

Hark, do you hear the sea?

- No, truly.

- Why, then, your other
senses grow imperfect

by your eyes' anuish.

- So may it be, indeed.

Methinks thy voice is altered

and thou speak'st in better phrase

and matter than thou didst.

- You are much deceived,

in nothing am I changed
but in my garments.

- Methinks you're better spoken.

- Oh, come on, sir.

Come on.

Here's the place.

Stand still.

How fearful and dizzy 'tis
to cast one's eyes so low!

The crows and choughs
that wing the midway air

show scarce so gross as beetles.

The fishermen, that walk upon
the beach, appear like mice

and yond tall anchoring bark
almost too small for sight.

I'll look no more, lest my brain turn

and the deficient sight
topple down headlong.

- Set me where you stand.

- Give me your hand.

You are now within a
foot of the extreme verge

for all beneath the moon
would I not leap upright.

- Let go my hand.

Here, friend, it's a jewel.

Well worth a poor man's taking.

Go thou farther off, bid me farewell

and let me hear thee going.

Now fare you well, good sir.

- With all my heart.

- Why I do trifle thus with his despair

is done to cure it.

- Oh you mighty gods.

This world,

I do renounce.

If Edgar live, oh, bless him.

- Had he been where he thought,

by this, had thought been past.

Alive or dead?

Ho, you sir!

Friend!

Hear you, sir!

Speak.

He might have died indeed.

Yet he revives.

What are you, sir?

Away, and let me die.

- Hadst thou been aught but
gossamer, feathers, air.

So many fathom down precipitating.

Thou'dst shivered like an egg.

But thou dost breathe.

Hast heavy substance, bleed'st
not, speak'st, art sound.

Thy life's a miracle.

Speak yet again.

- But have I fallen or no?

- From the dread summit
of this chalky bourn.

Look up a-height.

Do but look up.

- Alack, I have no eyes!

Is wretchedness deprived that benefit

to end itself by death?

- Give me your arm.

Up so.

How is't?

Feel you your legs?

Oh, you stand.

Too well, too well.

- This is above all strangeness.

Upon the crown of the cliff,

what thing was that which parted from you?

A poor unfortunate beggar.

- Oh, as I stood here below,

methought his eyes were two full moons.

He had a thousand noses, horns waved

like the enraged sea.

It was some fiend, think
therefore, happy father

the clearest gods have preserved thee.

- I do remember now
that thing you speak of,

I took it for a man.

Often 'twould say The fiend, the fiend.

He led me to that place.

- Bear free and patient thoughts.

But who comes here?

O thou side-piercing sight!

- No, they cannot touch me for coining.

I am the king himself.

Nature's above art in that respect.

There's your press-money.

That fellow handles his
bow like a crow-keeper.

Draw me a clothier's yard.

Oh, look, look, a mouse!

Peace, peace, this piece of
toasted cheese will do it.

O, well flown, bird!

In the clout, in the clout!

Give the words.

- Sweet marjoram.

- Pass.

I know that voice.

- Ha!

Goneril, with a white beard.

They flattered me like a dog.

Told me I had white hairs in my beard

ere the black ones were there.

To say aye and no to
every thing that I said.

Aye and no too was no good divinity.

When the rain came to wet me once

and the wind to make me chatter.

When the thunder would
not peace at my bidding,

there I found 'em.

There I smelt 'em out.

Go to, they are not men of their words.

They told me I was everything.

'Tis a lie.

I am not ague-proof.

- The trick of that
voice I do well remember.

Is it not the king?

- I, every inch a king.

When I do stare, see
how the subject quakes.

I pardon that man's life.

What was thy cause?

Adultery?

Thou shalt not die.

Die for adultery?

No.

The wren goes to it.

The small gilded fly
does lecher in my sight.

Let copulation thrive.

For Gloucester's bastard
son was kinder to his father

than my daughters got
'tween the lawful sheets.

To it, luxury, pell-mell!

For I lack soldiers.

Behold yond simpering dame,

whose face between her
forks presages snow.

That minces virtue and does shake the head

to hear of pleasure's name.

The fitchew nor the soiled horse,

goes to it with a more riotous appetite.

Down from the waist they are centaurs,

though women all above.

But to the girdle do the gods inherit,

beneath is all the fiends.

There's hell, there's darkness,

there's the sulphurous pit.

Burning, scalding, stench, consumption.

Fie, fie, fie!

Give me an ounce of civet, good apothecary

to sweeten my imagination.

There's money for thee.

- Let me kiss that hand.

- Let me wipe it first.

It smells of mortality.

- Oh ruined piece of nature.

This great world will
so wear out to nought.

Dost thou know me?

- I remember thine eyes well enough.

Dost thou squiny at me?

No, do thy worst, blind cupid!

I'll not love.

Read thou this challenge.

Mark but the penning of it.

- Were all the letters
suns, I could not see one.

- Read.
- What, with the case of eyes?

- O, ho, are you there with me?

No eyes in your head, nor
no money in your purse?

Your eyes are in a heavy
case, your purse in a light

yet, you see how this world goes.

- I see it feelingly.

- What, art mad?

A man may see how this
world goes with no eyes.

Look with thine ears.

See, how yond justice rails
upon yond simple thief.

Hark, in thine ear.

Change places, handy-dandy.

Which is the justice?

Which is the thief?

Thou hast seen a farmer's
dog bark at a beggar?

- Ay, sir.

- And the creature run from the cur?

There mightst behold the
great image of authority.

A dog's obeyed in office.

Thou rascal beadle, hold thy bloody hand!

Why dost thou lash that whore?

Strip thine own back.

Thou hotly lust to use her in that kind

for which thou whipp'st her.

Through tattered clothes
great vices do appear.

Robes and furred gowns hide all.

Plate sin with gold

and the strong lance of
justice hurtless breaks.

Arm it in rags, a pigmy's
straw does pierce it.

None does offend, none, I say, none.

I'll able 'em.

Take that in me, my friend,

who have the power to
seal the accuser's lips.

Get thee glass eyes.

And like a scurvy politician

seem to see the things thou dost not.

Now, pull off my boots.

Harder, harder.

If thou wilt weep my
fortunes, take my eyes.

I know thee well enough,
thy name is Gloucester.

Thou must be patient.

We came crying hither.

Thou knowest,

the first time that we smell
the air, we waul and cry.

I will preach to thee, mark.

- Alack, alack the day.

- When we are born, we cry

that we are come to this
great stage of fools.

This is a good block.

It were a delicate stratagem,

to shoe a troop of horse with felt.

I'll put it in proof

when I have stolen upon these sons-in-law

then, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill!

O, here he is.

Lay hands on him.

Sir, sir, your most
dear daughter Cordelia.

- No rescue?

What, a prisoner?

I am even the natural fool of fortune.

Use me well, you shall have ransom.

Let me have surgeons,

I am cut to the brains.

- You shall have any thing.

- I am a king, my masters, know you that.

- You are a royal one and we obey you.

- Then there's life in it.

Come.

And you get it.

You shall get it,

by running.

- But hail, gentle sir.

- Speed you, sir.

What's your will?

- Hear you aught, sir, of a battle toward?

- Sure, most certain.

- But, by your favor,

how near's the other army?

- Near and on speedy foot.

- Thank you, sir, that is all.

- You ever-gentle gods,
take my breath from me.

Let not my worser spirit tempt me again

to die before you please!

- Well pray you, father.

- Now, good sir.

What are you?

- A proclaimed prize!

Thou old unhappy traitor.

The sword is out that must destroy thee.

- Now let thy friendly hand
put strength enough to it.

- Wherefore, bold peasant.

Darest thou support a published traitor?

Let go his arm.

- I'll not let go, sir.

- Let go, slave or thou diest!

- Good gentleman, go your gait

and let poor folk pass.

Nay, come not near the old man.

- Out, dunghill!

- I'll pick your teeth, sir!

- Slave, take my purse.

Bury my body

and give the letters which
thou find'st about me

to Edmund, earl of Gloucester.

Seek him out upon the British party.

Oh, untimely.

What, is he dead?

- Rest you, father.

Let me see these pockets.

The letters that he speaks of

may be my friends.

Edmund, I am his prisoner
and his bed my jail

from the loathed warmth whereof deliver me

and supply the place for your labor.

Your wife, so I would say, Goneril.

A plot upon her husband's life
and the exchange my brother!

Give me your hand, father.

Far off, methinks, I hear the beaten drum.

Come, I'll bestow you with a friend.

- 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.

- To be acknowledged, madam, is o'erpaid.

- Be better suited.

These weeds are memories
of those worser hours.

I prithee, put them off.

- Pardon me, dear madam.

My boon I make it, that you know me not

till time and I think meet.

- Then be it so, my good lord.

- How does the king?

Madam, sleeps still.

- Oh, you kind gods,

Cure this great breach
in his abused nature!

The untuned and jarring senses,

oh, wind up of this child-changed father.

- So please your majesty
that we may wake the king,

he hath slept long.

Be governed by
your knowledge and proceed.

- Madam, in the heaviness of his sleep,

we put fresh garments on him.

Be by, good madam, when we do awake him.

- Very well.

Louder the music there.

Please you, draw near.

- Oh 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.

- Kind and dear princess.

- Had you not been their father,

these white flakes did
challenged pity of them.

Was this a face to be opposed
against the warring winds?

Mine enemy's dog, though he had bit me,

should have stood that
night against my fire.

If he wakes, speak to him.

- Madam, do you, 'tis fittest?

- How does my royal lord?

How fares your majesty?

- You do me wrong to
take me out of the grave.

Thou art a soul in bliss

but I am bound upon a wheel of fire.

That mine own tears do
scald like molten lead.

- Sir, do you know me?

- You're spirit, I know.

When did you die?

- Still, still, far wide!

- He's scarce awake.

Let him alone awhile.

- Where have I been?

Where am I?

Fair daylight?

I am mightily abused.

I should even die with pity

to see another thus.

I know not what to say.

I will not swear these are my hands.

Let me see.

I feel this pin prick.

Would I were assured of my condition.

- O, look upon me, sir,

and hold your hands in benediction on me.

No, sir, you must not kneel.

- Pray, do not mock me.

I am a very foolish fond old man.

And, to deal plainly.

I fear I am not in my perfect mind.

Methinks,

I should know you and know this man.

Yet I am doubtful

for I am mainly ignorant
what place this is.

And all the skill I have
remembers not these garments.

Nor I know not where I
did lodge last night.

Do not laugh at me.

For, as I am a man,

I think this lady to be my child Cordelia.

- And so I am, I am.

- Your tears wet?

Yes, faith.

I pray, weep not.

If you have poison for
me, I will drink it.

I know you do not love me

for your sisters have, as I
do remember, done me wrong.

You have some cause, they have not.

- No cause, no cause.

- Am I in France?

In your own kingdom, sir.

- Do not abuse me.

- Be comforted, good madam.

The great rage you see is killed in him.

Desire him to go in.

Trouble him no more till further settling.

- Will it please your highness walk?

- You must bear with me.

Pray you now,

forget and forgive.

I am old and foolish.

- Know of the duke if
his last purpose hold

or whether since he is advised

by aught to change the course.

He's full of alteration
and self-reproving.

Bring his constant pleasure.

- Our sister's man is
certainly miscarried.

- 'Tis to be feared, madam.

- Now, sweet lord,

you know the goodness I intend upon you.

Tell me but truly,

but then speak the truth.

Do you not love my sister?

- In honored love.

- But have you never
found my brother's way

to the forfended place?

- That thought abuses you.

- I never shall endure her.

But my lord,

be not familiar with her.

- Fear me not.

- Our very loving sister, well be met.

Sir, this I've heard.

The king is come to his daughter

for this business, it touches us,

as France invades our
land, not bolds the king.

- Why is this reasoned?

- Combine together against the enemy,

for these domestic and particular broils

are not the question here.

- Let's then determine
with the officers of war

on our proceedings.

- I shall attend you
presently at your tent.

- Sister, will go with us?

- No.

- 'Tis most convenient.

Pray you, go with us.

- O, ho, I know the riddle, I will go.

If e'er your grace
had speech with man so poor,

hear me one word.

- I'll overtake you.

Speak.

Before you fight
the battle, open this letter.

If you have victory, let the trumpet sound

for him that brought it.

Wretched though I seem,
I can produce a champion

that will prove what is avouched there.

Fortune love you.

- Stay till I have read the letter.

- I was forbid it.

When time shall serve,
let but the herald cry

and I'll appear again.

- Why, fare thee well.

I will o'erlook thy paper.

- The enemy's in view.

Here is the guess of their
true strength and forces.

Your haste is now urged on you, my lord.

- We will greet the time.

- To both these sisters
have I sworn my love,

and each jealous of the other,

as the stung are of the adder.

Which of them shall I take?

Both?

One?

Neither?

Neither can be enjoyed
if both remain alive.

As for the mercy the duke
intends to Lear and to Cordelia,

the battle done and they within our power,

shall never see his pardon.

For my state stands on me
to defend, not to debate.

- Here, father, take
the shadow of this tree

for your good host.

And pray that the right may thrive.

Away, old man, away!

King Lear hath lost.

He and his daughter ta'en.

Give me thy hand, come on.

- No farther, sir.

A man may rot even here.

- What, in ill thoughts again?

Men must endure their going hence

even as their coming hither.

Ripeness is all.

- And that's true too.

Come on.

- Some officers take
them away, good guard.

To the greater pleasures first be known

that are to sentence them.

- We are not the first,

who with best meaning,
have incurred the worst.

For thee, oppressed king, I am cast out.

Myself could else out-frown
false fortune's frown.

Shall we not see these
daughters and these sisters?

- No, no.

No, no, come.

Let's away to prison.

We two alone will sing
like birds in the cage.

When thou dost ask me blessing,

I'll kneel down and ask
of thee forgiveness.

And so we'll live and pray,

and sing and tell old tales

and laugh at gilded butterflies.

And hear poor rogues talk of court news

and we'll talk with them too,

who loses and who wins,
who's in, who's out,

and take upon us the mystery of things,

as if we were God's spies.

And we'll wear out in a walled prison,

packs and sects of great ones
that ebb and flow by the moon.

Take them away.

- Upon such sacrifices, my Cordelia,

The gods themselves throw incense.

Have I caught thee?

He that parts us shall
bring a brand from heaven

and fire us hence like foxes.

Wipe thine eyes.

The good years shall
devour them, flesh and fell

ere they shall make us weep.

We'll see 'em starve first.

Come.

- Come hither, captain.

Hark, take thou this note,

go follow them to prison.

One step I have advanced thee.

If thou dost as this instructs thee,

thou dost make thy way to noble fortunes.

Know thou this, that
men are as the time is.

To be tender-minded
does not become a sword.

Either say thou will do it

or thrive by other means.

- I'll do it, my lord.

- About it.

Write happy when thou
hast done and instantly.

- I cannot draw a cart,
nor eat dried oats.

If it be man's work, I'll do it.

- Ah, sir, you have shown
today your valiant strain,

and fortune led you well.

You have the captives were the opposites

of this day's strife.

I do require them of you.

- Sir, I thought it fit to send

the old and miserable
king to some retention.

With him I sent the queen.

My reason all the same

and they're ready tomorrow

or at further space to appear

where you shall hold your session.

- Sir, by your patience,

I hold you but a subject of this war,

not as a brother.

- That's as we list to grace him.

He led our powers.

Bore the commission of my place and person

the which immediacy may well stand up

and call itself your brother.

- Not so hot.

In his own grace he doth exalt himself

more than in your addition.

- In my rights,

By me invested, he compeers the best.

- That were the most, if
he should husband you.

- Jesters do oft prove prophets.

- Holla, holla!

That eye that told you
so looked but a-squint.

- Lady, I am not well,

else I should answer from
a full-flowing stomach.

General.

Take thou my soldiers,
prisoners, patrimony.

Dispose of them, of me.

The walls are thine.

Witness the world

that I create thee here,

my lord and master.

- Mean you to enjoy him then?

- The let-alone lies
not in your good will.

- Nor in thine, lord.

- Half-blooded fellow, yes.

- Let the drum strike
and prove my title thine.

- Stay yet, hear reason.

Edmund, I arrest thee on capital treason

and, in thine attaint, this gilded serpent

for your claim, fair sister,

I bar it in the interest of my wife.

'Tis she is sub-contracted to this lord,

and I, her husband, contradict your bans.

If you will marry, make your love to me.

My lady is bespoke.

- An interlude!

- Thou art armed, Gloucester.

Let the trumpet sound.

If none appear to prove upon thy person

thy heinous, manifest and many treasons,

There is my pledge.

I'll prove it on thy heart.

- Sick, oh, sick!

- If not, I'll ne'er trust medicine.

- There's my exchange!

What in the world he is
that names me traitor,

villain-like he lies!

- I trust to thy single virtue,

for thy soldiers, all levied in my name,

have in my name took their discharge.

- My sickness grows upon me.

- Convey her to my tent.

Herald, let the trumpet sound,

and read out.

- If any man of quality or degree

within the lists of the army
will maintain upon Edmund,

supposed Earl of Gloucester,

that he is a manifold traitor,

let him appear by the
third sound of the trumpet.

He is bold in his defense.

Again!

Again!

What are you?

Your name, your quality and why you answer

this present summons?

Know, my name
is lost yet am I noble

as the adversary.

Which is that adversary?

- What's he that speaks for
Edmund, Earl of Gloucester?

- Himself.

What say'st thou to him?

- Thou art a traitor.

False to thy gods, thy
brother and thy father.

Conspirant against this
high-illustrious prince.

Say thou no,

this sword, this arm and my best spirits

are bent to prove upon thy heart,

whereto I speak, thou liest.

- Back do I toss these
treasons to thy head.

This sword of mine shall
give them instant way.

- You stop, save him!

- This is mere practice, Gloucester.

By the law of war, thou
wast not bound to answer

an unknown opposite.

Thou art not vanquished,

but cozened and beguiled.

- Shut your mouth, dame,

or with this paper shall I stop it.

Thou worse than any name,
read thine own evil.

Nay, no tearing, lady.

I perceive you know this.

- Say, if I do, the laws
are mine, not thine.

Who can arraign me for it?

- Knowest thou this paper?

- Ask me not,

what I know.

- She's desperate, go
after her, govern her.

- What you have charged me with,

that have I done and more, much more.

The time will bring it out.

'Tis past, and so am I

but what art thou that
hast this fortune on me?

- Let's exchange charities.

I am no less in blood
than thou art, Edmund.

My name is Edgar and thy father's son.

The gods are just,

and of our pleasant vices

make instruments to plague us.

The dark and vicious
place where thee he got

cost him his eyes.

- Thou hast spoken right, 'tis true.

The wheel is come full circle.

- Where have you hid yourself?

How have you known the
miseries of your father?

- By nursing them, my lord.

My heart would burst.

The bloody proclamation to escape

taught me to shift into a madman's rags

and in this habit met I my
father with his bleeding rings.

I became his guide, I led him,

I begged for him, I saved
him from despair, I never,

oh fault.

Revealed myself unto him
until some half-hour past,

when I was armed,

not sure, though hoping,
of this good success.

I asked his blessing

and from first to last,

I told him my pilgrimage
but his flawed heart,

alack, too weak the conflict to support

'twixt two extremes of
passion, joy and grief,

burst smilingly.

- Help, oh, help!

She's dead.

- Who's dead?

Speak, man!

- Your lady, sir.

With her own hand

and her sister by her is poisoned.

She confesses it.

All three
now marry in an instant.

And yet, Edmund was beloved.

Here's Kent.

Come to bid my king
and master aye good night.

Is he not here?

- Speak, Edmund.

Where's the king and where's Cordelia?

- Speech of yours has moved me.

My writ is on the life
of Lear and on Cordelia.

Quickly send to the prison.

Run, run!

Haste thee, for thy life.

The gods defend her!

- Howl!

Howl!

Oh, you are men of stones.

Had I your tongues and eyes,

I'd use them so that
heaven's vault should crack.

She's gone forever!

I know when one is dead
and when one lives.

She's dead as earth.

Lend me a looking glass.

If that her breath will
mist or stain the stone,

why then, she lives.

Is this the promised end?

- Or image of that horror?

Fall and cease.

- This feather stirs, she lives.

If it be so, it is a chance
which does redeem all sorrows

that ever I have felt.

- My good master.

- Prithee, away.

- 'Tis noble Kent, your friend.

- Plague upon you,
murderers, traitors all!

I might have saved her.

Now, she's gone forever.

Cordelia, Cordelia!

Stay a little.

Ha?

What is't thou sayest?

Her voice was ever soft, gentle, and low.

An excellent thing in woman.

I killed the slave that
was a-hanging thee.

'Tis true, my lords, he did.

- Did I not, fellow?

I have seen the day with
my good biting falchion,

I would have made them skip.

I am old now and these
same crosses spoil me.

Who are you?

Mine eyes are not of the best,

I'll tell you straight.

- If fortune brag of
two she loved and hated,

one of them we behold.

- This is a dull sight.

Are you not Kent?

- The same.

Your servant Kent.

Where is your servant Caius?

- Oh, he's a good fellow,
I can tell you that.

He'll strike and quickly too.

He's dead and rotten.

- I am the very man.

- I'll see that straight.

- That, from your first
of difference and decay

have followed your sad steps.

- You are welcome hither.

- He knows not what he says

and vain it is that we present us to him.

- And my poor fool is hanged.

No.

No.

No life.

Why should a dog, a horse, a rat have life

and thou no breath at all?

Thou'lt come no more.

Never.

Never, never.

Never, never!

Pray you, undo this button.

Thank you, sir.

Do you see this?

Look on her, look, her lips.

Look there, look there!

- He faints!

My lord, my lord!

- Break, heart.

I prithee, break!

- Look up, my lord.

- Vex not his ghost.

Let him pass.

He hates him that would upon
the rack of this tough world

stretch him out longer.

- He's gone, indeed.

- The wonder is, he hath endured so long.

He but usurped his life.

Friends of my soul, you twain

rule in this realm

and the gored state sustain.

- I have a journey, sir,

shortly to go.

My master calls me, I must not say no.

- The weight of this
sad time we must obey.

Speak what we feel,

not what we ought to say.

The oldest hath borne most.

We that are young shall never see so much

nor live so long.