You are not worth the dust which the rude wind
Blows in your face. - I fear your disposition:
That nature, which contemns its origin,
Cannot be border'd certain in itself;

She that herself will sliver and disbranch
From her material sap, perforce must wither,
And come to deadly use.

Gon. No more: the text is foolish.

Alb. Wisdom and goodness to the vile seem vile;
Filths savour but themselves. What have you done?
Tigers, not daughters, what have you perform'd,
A father, and a gracious aged man,

Whose reverence the head-lugg'd bear would lick,
Most barbarous, most degenerate! have you madded.
Could my good brother suffer you to do it?
A man, a prince, by him so benefited?
If that the heavens do not their visible spirits
Send quickly down to tame these vile offences,
It will come,

Humanity must perforce prey on itself,

Like monsters of the deep.

Gon.

Milk-liver'd man!

That bear'st a cheek for blows, a head for wrongs;
Who hast not in thy brows an eye discerning

Thine honour from thy suffering; that not know'st,

Fools do those villains pity, who are punish'd
Ere they have done their mischief. Where's thy drum?

France spreads his banners in our noiseless land;
With plumed helm thy slayer begins threats;
Whilst thou, a moral fool, sitt'st still, and criest,

"Alack! why does he so?"

Alb.

See thyself, devil!

Proper deformity seems not in the fiend

So horrid, as in woman.
Gon.

O vain fool!

Alb. Thou changed and self-cover'd thing, for shame,

Be-monster not thy feature. Were it my fitness
To let these hands obey my blood,

They are apt enough to dislocate and tear
Thy flesh and bones: howe'er thou art a fiend,
A woman's shape doth shield thee.

Gon. Marry, your manhood now!

Alb. What news?

Enter a Messenger.

Mess. O, my good lord! the duke of Cornwall 's dead;

Slain by his servant, going to put out

The other eye of Gloster.

Alb.

Gloster's eyes!

Mess. A servant that he bred, thrill'd with remorse,

Oppos'd against the act, bending his sword

To his great master; who, thereat enrag'd,

Flew on him, and amongst them fell'd him dead,
But not without that harmful stroke, which since

Hath pluck'd him after.

Alb.

This shows you are above,

You justicers, that these our nether crimes
So speedily can venge! - But, O poor Gloster!

Lost he his other eye?

Mess.

Both, both, my lord.

This letter, Madam, craves a speedy answer; 'T is from your sister.

Gon. [Aside.] One way I like this well;

But being widow, and my Gloster with her,

May all the building in my fancy pluck

Upon my hateful life. Another way,

The news is not so tart. [To him.] I'll read, and answer.

[Exit.

Alb. Where was his son, when they did take his eyes?

Mess. Come with my lady hither.

Alb.

He is not here.

Mess. No, my good lord; I met him back again.
Alb. Knows he the wickedness?

Mess. Ay, my good lord; 't was he inform'd against him,

And quit the house, on purpose that their punishment

Might have the freer course.

Alb.

Gloster, 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.

SCENE III.

The French Camp near Dover.

Enter KENT, and a Gentleman.

[Exeunt.

Kent. Why the king of France is so suddenly gone back, know you the reason?

Gent. Something he left imperfect in the state, Which since his coming forth is thought of; which Imports to the kingdom so much fear and danger, That his personal return was most requir'd,

And necessary.

Kent. Whom hath he left behind him general?
Gent. The Mareschal of France, Monsieur le Fer.

Kent. Did your letters pierce the queen to any demonstration

of grief?

Gent. Ay, Sir; she took them, read them in my presence; And now and then an ample tear trill'd down Her delicate cheek: it seem'd, she was a queen

Over her passion, who, most rebel-like,

Sought to be king o'er her.

Kent.

O! then it mov'd her.

Gent. Not to a rage: patience and sorrow strove Who should express her goodliest. You have seen Sunshine and rain at once: her smiles and tears

Were like a better May: those happy smilets,
That play'd on her ripe lip, seem'd not to know
What guests were in her eyes; which parted thence,
As pearls from diamonds dropp'd. - In brief, sorrow
Would be a rarity most belov'd', if all

Could so become it.

Kent.

Made she no verbal question?

Gent. 'Faith, once, or twice, she heav'd the name of "fa

ther"

Pantingly forth, as if it press'd her heart;

1

Cried, "Sisters! sisters! Shame of ladies! sisters!

Kent! father! sisters! What? i' the storm? i' the night?

Let pity not be believed!" - There she shook

The holy water from her heavenly eyes,

And clamour moisten'd: then, away she started

To deal with grief alone.

Kent.

It is the stars,

The stars above us, govern our conditions;
Else one self mate and mate could not beget

Such different issues. You spoke not with her since?

Gent. No.

Kent. Was this before the king return'd?

Gent.

No, since.

Kent. Well, Sir, the poor distress'd Lear 's i' the town,

Who sometime, in his better tune, remembers

What we are come about, and by no means

Will yield to see his daughter.

Gent.

Why, good Sir?

Kent A sovereign shame so elbows him; his own unkindness,

That stripp'd her from his benediction, turn'd her

To foreign casualties, gave her dear rights

To his dog-hearted daughters: these things sting

His mind so venomously, that burning shame

Detains him from Cordelia.

Gent.

Alack, poor gentleman!

Kent. Of Albany's and Cornwall's powers you heard not?
Gent. 'T is so they are afoot.

Kent. Well, Sir, I'll bring you to our master Lear,
And leave you to attend him. Some dear cause
Will in concealment wrap me up awhile:
When I am known aright, you shall not grieve
Lending me this acquaintance. I pray you, go
Along with me.

SCENE IV.

The Same. A Tent.

Enter CORDELIA, Physician, and Soldiers.
Cor. Alack! 'tis he: why, he was met even now
As mad as the vex'd sea: singing aloud;
Crown'd with rank fumiter, and furrow weeds,
With hoar-docks, hemlock, nettles, cuckoo-flowers,

Darnel, and all the idle weeds that grow

In our sustaining corn. - A century send forth;

Search every acre in the high-grown field,

[Exeunt.

And bring him to our eye. [Exit an Officer.] - What can man's

wisdom,

In the restoring his bereaved sense?

He, that helps him, take all my outward worth.

Phy. There is means, Madam:

Our foster-nurse of nature is repose,

The which he lacks; that to provoke in him,

Are many simples operative, whose power

Will close the eye of anguish.

Cor.

All bless'd secrets,

All you unpublish'd virtues of the earth,

Spring with my tears! be aidant, and remediate,

In the good man's distress! Seek, seek for him;

Let his ungovern'd rage dissolve the life

That wants the means to lead it.

Enter a Messenger.

Mess.

News, Madam :

The British powers are marching hitherward.