The Tragedy of King Lear - 2

To hold my very course. Prepare for dinner.
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE IV. A Hall in Albany’s Palace.
Enter Kent, disguised.
KENT.
If but as well I other accents borrow,
That can my speech defuse, my good intent
May carry through itself to that full issue
For which I rais’d my likeness. Now, banish’d Kent,
If thou canst serve where thou dost stand condemn’d,
So may it come, thy master, whom thou lov’st,
Shall find thee full of labours.
Horns within. Enter King
Lear, Knights and Attendants.
LEAR.
Let me not stay a jot for dinner; go get it ready.
[_Exit an Attendant._]
How now! what art thou?
KENT.
A man, sir.
LEAR.
What dost thou profess? What wouldst thou with us?
KENT.
I do profess to be no less than I seem; to serve him truly that
will put me in trust; to love him that is honest; to converse
with him that is wise and says little; to fear judgement; to fight
when I cannot choose; and to eat no fish.
LEAR.
What art thou?
KENT.
A very honest-hearted fellow, and as poor as the King.
LEAR.
If thou be’st as poor for a subject as he’s for a king, thou art
poor enough. What wouldst thou?
KENT.
Service.
LEAR.
Who wouldst thou serve?
KENT.
You.
LEAR.
Dost thou know me, fellow?
KENT.
No, sir; but you have that in your countenance which I would fain
call master.
LEAR.
What’s that?
KENT.
Authority.
LEAR.
What services canst thou do?
KENT.
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.
LEAR.
How old art thou?
KENT.
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 forty-eight.
LEAR.
Follow me; thou shalt serve me. If I like thee no worse after dinner, I
will not part from thee yet. Dinner, ho, dinner! Where’s my knave? my
fool? Go you and call my fool hither.
[_Exit an Attendant._]
Enter Oswald.
You, you, sirrah, where’s my daughter?
OSWALD.
So please you,—
[_Exit._]
LEAR.
What says the fellow there? Call the clotpoll back.
[_Exit a Knight._]
Where’s my fool? Ho, I think the world’s asleep.
Re-enter Knight.
How now! where’s that mongrel?
KNIGHT.
He says, my lord, your daughter is not well.
LEAR.
Why came not the slave back to me when I called him?
KNIGHT.
Sir, he answered me in the roundest manner, he would not.
LEAR.
He would not?
KNIGHT.
My lord, I know not what the matter is; but to my judgement 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.
LEAR.
Ha! say’st thou so?
KNIGHT.
I beseech you pardon me, my lord, if I be mistaken; for my duty
cannot be silent when I think your highness wronged.
LEAR.
Thou but rememberest me of mine own conception: I have perceived
a most faint neglect of late; which I have rather blamed as mine
own jealous curiosity than as a very pretence and purpose of
unkindness: I will look further into’t. But where’s my fool? I
have not seen him this two days.
KNIGHT.
Since my young lady’s going into France, sir, the fool hath much
pined away.
LEAR.
No more of that; I have noted it well. Go you and tell my
daughter I would speak with her.
[_Exit Attendant._]
Go you, call hither my fool.
[_Exit another Attendant._]
Re-enter Oswald.
O, you, sir, you, come you hither, sir: who am I, sir?
OSWALD.
My lady’s father.
LEAR.
My lady’s father! my lord’s knave: you whoreson dog! you slave! you
cur!
OSWALD.
I am none of these, my lord; I beseech your pardon.
LEAR.
Do you bandy looks with me, you rascal?
[_Striking him._]
OSWALD.
I’ll not be struck, my lord.
KENT.
Nor tripp’d neither, you base football player.
[_Tripping up his heels._]
LEAR.
I thank thee, fellow. Thou serv’st me, and I’ll love thee.
KENT.
Come, sir, arise, away! I’ll teach you differences: away, away! If you
will measure your lubber’s length again, tarry; but away! go to; have
you wisdom? So.
[_Pushes Oswald out._]
LEAR.
Now, my friendly knave, I thank thee: there’s earnest of thy service.
[_Giving Kent money._]
Enter Fool.
FOOL.
Let me hire him too; here’s my coxcomb.
[_Giving Kent his cap._]
LEAR.
How now, my pretty knave, how dost thou?
FOOL.
Sirrah, you were best take my coxcomb.
KENT.
Why, fool?
FOOL.
Why, for taking one’s part that’s out of favour. Nay, an thou
canst not smile as the wind sits, thou’lt catch cold shortly:
there, take my coxcomb: why, this fellow has banish’d two on’s
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!
LEAR.
Why, my boy?
FOOL.
If I gave them all my living, I’d keep my coxcombs myself. There’s
mine; beg another of thy daughters.
LEAR.
Take heed, sirrah, the whip.
FOOL.
Truth’s a dog must to kennel; he must be whipped out, when
the Lady Brach may stand by the fire and stink.
LEAR.
A pestilent gall to me!
FOOL.
Sirrah, I’ll teach thee a speech.
LEAR.
Do.
FOOL.
Mark it, nuncle:
Have more than thou showest,
Speak less than thou knowest,
Lend less than thou owest,
Ride more than thou goest,
Learn more than thou trowest,
Set less than thou throwest;
Leave thy drink and thy whore,
And keep in-a-door,
And thou shalt have more
Than two tens to a score.
KENT.
This is nothing, fool.
FOOL.
Then ’tis like the breath of an unfee’d lawyer, you gave me
nothing for’t. Can you make no use of nothing, nuncle?
LEAR.
Why, no, boy; nothing can be made out of nothing.
FOOL.
[_to Kent._] Prythee tell him, so much the rent of his land
comes to: he will not believe a fool.
LEAR.
A bitter fool.
FOOL.
Dost thou know the difference, my boy, between a bitter fool and
a sweet one?
LEAR.
No, lad; teach me.
FOOL.
That lord that counsell’d 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.
LEAR.
Dost thou call me fool, boy?
FOOL.
All thy other titles thou hast given away; that thou wast born
with.
KENT.
This is not altogether fool, my lord.
FOOL.
No, faith; lords and great men will not let me; if I had a
monopoly out, they would have part on’t and ladies too, they
will not let me have all the fool to myself; they’ll be
snatching. Nuncle, give me an egg, and I’ll give thee two
crowns.
LEAR.
What two crowns shall they be?
FOOL.
Why, after I have cut the egg i’ the middle and eat up the
meat, the two crowns of the egg. When thou clovest thy crown i’
the middle and gav’st away both parts, thou bor’st thine ass on
thy back o’er the dirt: thou hadst little wit in thy bald crown
when thou gav’st thy golden one away. If I speak like myself in
this, let him be whipped that first finds it so.
[_Singing._]
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.
LEAR.
When were you wont to be so full of songs, sirrah?
FOOL.
I have used it, nuncle, e’er since thou mad’st thy daughters thy
mothers; for when thou gav’st them the rod, and put’st down thine
own breeches,
[_Singing._]
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.
Prythee, nuncle, keep a schoolmaster that can teach thy fool to
lie; I would fain learn to lie.
LEAR.
An you lie, sirrah, we’ll have you whipped.
FOOL.
I marvel what kin thou and thy daughters are: they’ll have me
whipped for speaking true; thou’lt have me whipped for lying;
and sometimes I am whipped for holding my peace. I had rather be
any kind o’thing than a fool: and yet I would not be thee,
nuncle: thou hast pared thy wit o’both sides, and left nothing
i’ the middle: here comes one o’ the parings.
Enter Goneril.
LEAR.
How now, daughter? What makes that frontlet on? Methinks you
are too much of late i’ the frown.
FOOL.
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. [_To Goneril._]
Yes, forsooth, I will hold my tongue. So your face bids me, though
you say nothing. Mum, mum,
He that keeps nor crust nor crum,
Weary of all, shall want some.
[_Pointing to Lear_.] That’s a shealed peascod.
GONERIL.
Not only, sir, this your all-licens’d 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 scape censure, nor the redresses sleep,
Which, in the tender of a wholesome weal,
Might in their working do you that offence
Which else were shame, that then necessity
Will call discreet proceeding.
FOOL.
For you know, nuncle,
The hedge-sparrow fed the cuckoo so long
That it’s had it head bit off by it young.
So out went the candle, and we were left darkling.
LEAR.
Are you our daughter?
GONERIL.
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 transform you
From what you rightly are.
FOOL.
May not an ass know when the cart draws the horse? Whoop, Jug! I
love thee!
LEAR.
Doth any here know me? This is not Lear;
Doth Lear walk thus? speak thus? Where are his eyes?
Either his notion weakens, his discernings
Are lethargied. Ha! waking? ’Tis not so!
Who is it that can tell me who I am?
FOOL.
Lear’s shadow.
LEAR.
I would learn that; for by the marks of sovereignty, knowledge and
reason, I should be false persuaded I had daughters.
FOOL.
Which they will make an obedient father.
LEAR.
Your name, fair gentlewoman?
GONERIL.
This admiration, sir, is much o’ the favour
Of other your new pranks. I do beseech you
To understand my purposes aright:
As you are old and reverend, you should be wise.
Here do you keep a hundred knights and squires;
Men so disorder’d, so debosh’d and bold
That this our court, infected with their manners,
Shows like a riotous inn. Epicurism and lust
Makes it more like a tavern or a brothel
Than a grac’d palace. The shame itself doth speak
For instant remedy. Be, then, desir’d
By her that else will take the thing she begs
A little to disquantity your train;
And the remainder that shall still depend,
To be such men as may besort your age,
Which know themselves, and you.
LEAR.
Darkness and devils!
Saddle my horses; call my train together.
Degenerate bastard! I’ll not trouble thee:
Yet have I left a daughter.
GONERIL.
You strike my people; and your disorder’d rabble
Make servants of their betters.
Enter Albany.
LEAR.
Woe that too late repents!—
[_To Albany._] 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!
ALBANY.
Pray, sir, be patient.
LEAR.
[_to Goneril._] 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, wrench’d my frame of nature
From the fix’d place; drew from my heart all love,
And added to the gall. O Lear, Lear, Lear!
[_Striking his head._] Beat at this gate that let thy folly in
And thy dear judgement out! Go, go, my people.
ALBANY.
My lord, I am guiltless, as I am ignorant
Of what hath moved you.
LEAR.
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 honour her! If she must teem,
Create her child of spleen, that it may live
And be a thwart disnatur’d 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!
[_Exit._]
ALBANY.
Now, gods that we adore, whereof comes this?
GONERIL.
Never afflict yourself to know more of it;
But let his disposition have that scope
That dotage gives it.
Re-enter Lear.
LEAR.
What, fifty of my followers at a clap?
Within a fortnight?
ALBANY.
What’s the matter, sir?
LEAR.
I’ll tell thee. [_To Goneril._] Life and death! I am
asham’d
That thou hast power to shake my manhood thus;
That these hot tears, which break from me perforce,
Should make thee worth them. Blasts and fogs upon thee!
Th’untented woundings of a father’s curse
Pierce every sense about thee! Old fond eyes,
Beweep this cause again, I’ll pluck ye out,
And cast you with the waters that you lose
To temper clay. Ha! Let it be so.
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 for ever.
[_Exeunt Lear, Kent and Attendants._]
GONERIL.
Do you mark that?
ALBANY.
I cannot be so partial, Goneril,
To the great love I bear you,—
GONERIL.
Pray you, content. What, Oswald, ho!
[_To the Fool._] You, sir, more knave than fool, after your master.
FOOL.
Nuncle Lear, nuncle Lear, tarry and take the fool with thee.
A fox when one has caught her,
And such a daughter,
Should sure to the slaughter,
If my cap would buy a halter;
So the fool follows after.
[_Exit._]
GONERIL.
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, each complaint, dislike,
He may enguard his dotage with their powers,
And hold our lives in mercy. Oswald, I say!
ALBANY.
Well, you may fear too far.
GONERIL.
Safer than trust too far:
Let me still take away the harms I fear,
Not fear still to be taken: I know his heart.
What he hath utter’d I have writ my sister:
If she sustain him and his hundred knights,
When I have show’d th’unfitness,—
Re-enter Oswald.
How now, Oswald!
What, have you writ that letter to my sister?
OSWALD.
Ay, madam.
GONERIL.
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.
[_Exit Oswald._]
No, no, my lord!
This milky gentleness and course of yours,
Though I condemn not, yet, under pardon,
You are much more attask’d for want of wisdom
Than prais’d for harmful mildness.
ALBANY.
How far your eyes may pierce I cannot tell:
Striving to better, oft we mar what’s well.
GONERIL.
Nay then,—
ALBANY.
Well, well; the event.
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE V. Court before the Duke of Albany’s Palace.
Enter Lear, Kent and Fool.
LEAR.
Go you before to Gloucester with these letters: acquaint my
daughter no further with anything you know than comes from her
demand out of the letter. If your diligence be not speedy, I
shall be there afore you.
KENT.
I will not sleep, my lord, till I have delivered your letter.
[_Exit._]
FOOL.
If a man’s brains were in’s heels, were’t not in danger of
kibes?
LEAR.
Ay, boy.
FOOL.
Then I prythee be merry; thy wit shall not go slipshod.
LEAR.
Ha, ha, ha!
FOOL.
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.
LEAR.
What canst tell, boy?
FOOL.
She’ll taste as like this as a crab does to a crab. Thou
canst tell why one’s nose stands i’the middle on’s face?
LEAR.
No.
FOOL.
Why, to keep one’s eyes of either side’s nose, that what a man
cannot smell out, he may spy into.
LEAR.
I did her wrong.
FOOL.
Canst tell how an oyster makes his shell?
LEAR.
No.
FOOL.
Nor I neither; but I can tell why a snail has a house.
LEAR.
Why?
FOOL.
Why, to put’s head in; not to give it away to his daughters, and
leave his horns without a case.
LEAR.
I will forget my nature. So kind a father! Be my horses ready?
FOOL.
Thy asses are gone about ’em. The reason why the seven stars are
no more than seven is a pretty reason.
LEAR.
Because they are not eight?
FOOL.
Yes indeed: thou wouldst make a good fool.
LEAR.
To tak’t again perforce!—Monster ingratitude!
FOOL.
If thou wert my fool, nuncle, I’ld have thee beaten for being
old before thy time.
LEAR.
How’s that?
FOOL.
Thou shouldst not have been old till thou hadst been wise.
LEAR.
O, let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven!
Keep me in temper; I would not be mad!
Enter Gentleman.
How now? are the horses ready?
GENTLEMAN.
Ready, my lord.
LEAR.
Come, boy.
FOOL.
She that’s a maid now, and laughs at my departure,
Shall not be a maid long, unless things be cut shorter.
[_Exeunt._]

ACT II
SCENE I. A court within the Castle of the Earl of Gloucester.
Enter Edmund and Curan, meeting.
EDMUND.
Save thee, Curan.
CURAN.
And you, sir. I have been with your father, and given him
notice that the Duke of Cornwall and Regan his Duchess will be
here with him this night.
EDMUND.
How comes that?
CURAN.
Nay, I know not. You have heard of the news abroad; I mean the
whispered ones, for they are yet but ear-kissing arguments?
EDMUND.
Not I: pray you, what are they?
CURAN.
Have you heard of no likely wars toward, ’twixt the two dukes
of Cornwall and Albany?
EDMUND.
Not a word.
CURAN.
You may do, then, in time. Fare you well, sir.
[_Exit._]
EDMUND.
The Duke be here tonight? The better! best!
This weaves itself perforce into my business.
My father hath set guard to take my brother;
And I have one thing, of a queasy question,
Which I must act. Briefness and fortune work!
Brother, a word, descend, brother, I say!
Enter Edgar.
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 ’gainst the Duke of Cornwall?
He’s coming hither; now, i’ the night, i’ the haste,
And Regan with him: have you nothing said
Upon his party ’gainst the Duke of Albany?
Advise yourself.
EDGAR.
I am sure on’t, not a word.
EDMUND.
I hear my father coming:—pardon me;
In cunning I must draw my sword upon you:
Draw: seem to defend yourself: now quit you well.
Yield: come before my father. Light, ho, here!
Fly, brother. Torches, torches!—So farewell.
[_Exit Edgar._]
Some blood drawn on me would beget opinion
Of my more fierce endeavour: [_Wounds his arm._]
I have seen drunkards
Do more than this in sport. Father, father!
Stop, stop! No help?
Enter Gloucester and
Servants with torches.
GLOUCESTER.
Now, Edmund, where’s the villain?
EDMUND.
Here stood he in the dark, his sharp sword out,
Mumbling of wicked charms, conjuring the moon
To stand auspicious mistress.
GLOUCESTER.
But where is he?
EDMUND.
Look, sir, I bleed.
GLOUCESTER.
Where is the villain, Edmund?
EDMUND.
Fled this way, sir. When by no means he could,—
GLOUCESTER.
Pursue him, ho! Go after.
[_Exeunt Servants._]
—By no means what?
EDMUND.
Persuade me to the murder of your lordship;
But that I told him the revenging gods
’Gainst parricides did all their thunders bend;
Spoke with how manifold and strong a bond
The child was bound to the father; sir, in fine,
Seeing how loathly opposite I stood
To his unnatural purpose, in fell motion
With his prepared sword, he charges home
My unprovided body, latch’d mine arm;
But when he saw my best alarum’d spirits,
Bold in the quarrel’s right, rous’d to th’encounter,
Or whether gasted by the noise I made,
Full suddenly he fled.
GLOUCESTER.
Let him fly far;
Not in this land shall he remain uncaught;
And found—dispatch’d. The noble Duke my master,
My worthy arch and patron, comes tonight:
By his authority I will proclaim it,
That he which finds him shall deserve our thanks,
Bringing the murderous coward to the stake;
He that conceals him, death.
EDMUND.
When I dissuaded him from his intent,
And found him pight to do it, with curst speech
I threaten’d to discover him: he replied,
‘Thou unpossessing bastard! dost thou think,
If I would stand against thee, would the reposal
Of any trust, virtue, or worth in thee
Make thy words faith’d? No: what I should deny
As this I would; ay, though thou didst produce
My very character, I’d turn it all
To thy suggestion, plot, and damned practice:
And thou must make a dullard of the world,
If they not thought the profits of my death
Were very pregnant and potential spurs
To make thee seek it.
GLOUCESTER.
O strange and fast’ned villain!
Would he deny his letter, said he? I never got him.
[_Tucket within._]
Hark, the Duke’s trumpets! I know not why he comes.
All ports I’ll bar; the villain shall not scape;
The Duke must grant me that: besides, his picture
I will send far and near, that all the kingdom
May have due note of him; and of my land,
Loyal and natural boy, I’ll work the means
To make thee capable.
Enter Cornwall, Regan and
Attendants.
CORNWALL.
How now, my noble friend! since I came hither,
Which I can call but now, I have heard strange news.
REGAN.
If it be true, all vengeance comes too short
Which can pursue th’offender. How dost, my lord?
GLOUCESTER.
O madam, my old heart is crack’d, it’s crack’d!
REGAN.
What, did my father’s godson seek your life?
He whom my father nam’d? your Edgar?
GLOUCESTER.
O lady, lady, shame would have it hid!
REGAN.
Was he not companion with the riotous knights
That tend upon my father?
GLOUCESTER.
I know not, madam; ’tis too bad, too bad.
EDMUND.
Yes, madam, he was of that consort.
REGAN.
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 inform’d of them; and with such cautions
That if they come to sojourn at my house,
I’ll not be there.
CORNWALL.
Nor I, assure thee, Regan.
Edmund, I hear that you have shown your father
A childlike office.
EDMUND.
It was my duty, sir.
GLOUCESTER.
He did bewray his practice; and receiv’d
This hurt you see, striving to apprehend him.
CORNWALL.
Is he pursued?
GLOUCESTER.
Ay, my good lord.
CORNWALL.
If he be taken, he shall never more
Be fear’d of doing harm: make your own purpose,
How in my strength you please. For you, Edmund,
Whose virtue and obedience doth this instant
So much commend itself, you shall be ours:
Natures of such deep trust we shall much need;
You we first seize on.
EDMUND.
I shall serve you, sir, truly, however else.
GLOUCESTER.
For him I thank your grace.
CORNWALL.
You know not why we came to visit you?
REGAN.
Thus out of season, threading dark-ey’d 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 best thought it fit
To answer from our home; the several messengers
From hence attend dispatch. Our good old friend,
Lay comforts to your bosom; and bestow
Your needful counsel to our business,
Which craves the instant use.
GLOUCESTER.
I serve you, madam:
Your graces are right welcome.
[_Exeunt. Flourish._]
SCENE II. Before Gloucester’s Castle.
Enter Kent and Oswald,
severally.
OSWALD.
Good dawning to thee, friend: art of this house?
KENT.
Ay.
OSWALD.
Where may we set our horses?
KENT.
I’ the mire.
OSWALD.
Prythee, if thou lov’st me, tell me.
KENT.
I love thee not.
OSWALD.
Why then, I care not for thee.
KENT.
If I had thee in Lipsbury pinfold, I would make thee care for me.
OSWALD.
Why dost thou use me thus? I know thee not.
KENT.
Fellow, I know thee.
OSWALD.
What dost thou know me for?
KENT.
A knave; a rascal; an eater of broken meats; a base, proud,
shallow, beggarly, three-suited, hundred-pound, filthy,
worsted-stocking knave; a lily-livered, action-taking, whoreson,
glass-gazing, super-serviceable, finical rogue;
one trunk-inheriting slave; one that wouldst be a bawd in way of
good service, and art nothing but the composition of a
knave, beggar, coward, pander, and the son and heir of a mongrel
bitch: one whom I will beat into clamorous whining, if thou
deniest the least syllable of thy addition.
OSWALD.
Why, what a monstrous fellow art thou, thus to rail on one that’s
neither known of thee nor knows thee?
KENT.
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, yet the moon
shines; I’ll make a sop o’ the moonshine of you: draw, you
whoreson cullionly barber-monger, draw!
[_Drawing his sword._]
OSWALD.
Away! I have nothing to do with thee.
KENT.
Draw, you rascal: you come with letters against the King; and
take vanity the puppet’s part against the royalty of her father:
draw, you rogue, or I’ll so carbonado your shanks:—draw, you rascal;
come your ways!
OSWALD.
Help, ho! murder! help!
KENT.
Strike, you slave; stand, rogue, stand; you neat slave, strike!
[_Beating him._]
OSWALD.
Help, ho! murder! murder!
Enter Edmund, Cornwall, Regan,
Gloucester and Servants.
EDMUND.
How now! What’s the matter? Part!
KENT.
With you, goodman boy, if you please: come, I’ll flesh ye; come
on, young master.
GLOUCESTER.
Weapons! arms! What’s the matter here?
CORNWALL.