SCENE II. Before the Duke of Albany's palace.

Enter GONERIL and EDMUND.

Gon. Welcome, my lord: I marvel our mild husband Not met us on the way.

Enter OSWALD.

Now, where's your master?

Osw. 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 inform'd him, then he call'd me sot,

And told me I had turn'd the wrong side out:

What most he should dislike seems pleasant to him;
What like, offensive.

Gon.

[To Edm.] Then shall you go no further.

It is the cowish terror of his spirit,

That dares not undertake: he'll not feel wrongs
Which tie him to an answer. Our wishes on the way
May prove effects. Back, Edmund, to my brother;
Hasten his musters and conduct his powers:

I must change arms 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;

ΙΟ

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[Giving a favour.

Decline your head: this kiss, if it durst speak,
Would stretch thy spirits up into the air:
Conceive, and fare thee well.

Edm. Yours in the ranks of death.
Gon.

My most dear Gloucester ! [Exit Edmund.

O, the difference of man and man!

You are not worth the dust which the rude wind
Blows in your face. I fear your disposition:
That nature which contemns it 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 even 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 state begins to threat;

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Whiles thou, a moral fool, sit'st still and criest 'Alack, why does he so?'

Alb.

See thyself, devil!

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Proper deformity shows not in the fiend

So horrid as in woman.

Alb. Thou changed and self-cover'd thing, for shame,
Be-monster not thy feature. Were 't 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 mew.

Enter a Messenger.

Alb. What news?

Mess. O, my good lord, the Duke of Cornwall's dead; Slain by his servant, going to put out

The other eye of Gloucester.

Alb.

Gloucester's eyes!

Mess. A servant that he bred, thrill'd with remorse, Opposed against the act, bending his sword

To his great master; who, thereat enraged,

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!

Lost he his other eye?

Mess.

But, O poor Gloucester!

Both, both, my lord.

This letter, madam, craves a speedy answer;

'Tis from your sister.

Gon.

[Aside] One way I like this well;

But being widow, and my Gloucester with her,
May all the building in my fancy pluck

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Upon my hateful life: another way,

The news is not so tart.-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.

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Mess. No, my good lord; I met him back again.

Alb. Knows he the wickedness?

Mess. Ay, my good lord; 'twas he inform'd against him; And quit the house on purpose, that their punishment Might have the freer course.

Alb.
To thank thee for the love thou show'dst the king,
And to revenge thine eyes.
Tell me what more thou know'st.

Gloucester, I live

Come hither, friend:

[Exeunt.

SCENE III. The French camp near Dover.

Enter KENT and a Gentleman.

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 required and necessary.

Kent. Who hath he left behind him general?

Gent. The Marshal of France, Monsieur La Far.

Kent. Did your letters pierce the queen to any demonstration of grief?

ΙΟ

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 moved 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 way: 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 beloved,

If all could so become it.

Kent.

Made she no verbal question?

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Gent. Faith, once or twice she heaved the name of

'father'

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

Crièd Sisters! sisters! Shame of ladies! sisters!

Kent! father! sisters! What, i̇' 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.

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.

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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?

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Kent. A sovereign shame so elbows him: his own un

kindness,

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