ACT I.

[Enter Kent, Gloster, and Edmund.]

Kent.
I thought the King had more affected the Duke of Albany than Cornwall.

Glou.
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, for equalities are so weighed that curiosity in neither can make choice of either’s moiety.

Kent.
 

Glou.

Kent.
I cannot conceive you.

Glou.

Do you smell a fault?

Kent.
I cannot wish the fault undone, the issue of it being so proper.

Glou.
Though this knave came something saucily into 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?

Edm.
No, my lord.

Glou.
My Lord of Kent: remember him hereafter as my honourable friend.

Edm.
My services to your lordship.

Kent.
I must love you, and sue to know you better.

Edm.
Sir, I shall study deserving.

Glou.
He hath been out nine years, and away he shall again.—The king is coming.

[Sennet within.]
[Enter Lear, Cornwall, Albany, Goneril, Regan, Cordelia, and Attendants.]

Lear.
Attend the lords of France and Burgundy, Gloster.

Glou.
   

[Exeunt Gloster and Edmund.]

Lear.
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
Unburden’d 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,
And here are to be answer’d.—Tell me, my daughters,—
Since now we will divest us both of rule, Interest of territory, cares of state,
—

Cor.
[Aside.]

Lear.
Of all these bounds, even from this line to this,
With shadowy forests and with champains rich’d,
With plenteous rivers and wide-skirted meads,
We make thee lady: to thine and Albany’s issue
Be this perpetual.—What says our second daughter,
Our dearest Regan, wife to Cornwall? Speak.

Reg.
Sir, I am made of the selfsame metal that my sister is, And prize me at her worth. In my true heart I find she names my very deed of love; Only she comes too short,—that 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.

Cor.
[Aside.] 

Lear.
To thee and thine hereditary ever
Remain this ample third of our fair kingdom;
No less in space, validity, and pleasure
Than that conferr’d on Goneril.—Now, our joy,
Although the last, not least; to whose young love
The vines of France and milk of Burgundy
Strive to be interess’d; what can you say to draw
A third more opulent than your sisters? Speak.

Cor.
Nothing, my lord.

Lear.
Nothing!

Cor.

Lear.
Nothing can come of nothing: speak again.

Cor.

Lear.
How, how, Cordelia? mend your speech a little, Lest you may mar your fortunes.

Cor.
Good my lord, You have begot me, bred me, lov’d me: I Return those duties back as are right fit, Obey you, love you, and most honour 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,

Lear.
But goes thy heart with this?

Cor.
Ay, good my lord.

Lear.

Cor.
So young, my lord, and true.

Lear.
Let it be so,—thy truth then be thy dower:
For, by the sacred radiance of the sun,
The mysteries of Hecate, and the night;
By all the operation of the orbs,
From whom we do exist and cease to be;

The barbarous Scythian,
Or he that makes his generation messes
To gorge his appetite, shall to my bosom
Be as well neighbour’d, pitied, and reliev’d,

Kent.
Good my liege,—

Lear.
Peace, Kent!

I lov’d her most, and thought to set my rest [To Cordelia.] 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 in my power, Pre-eminence, and all the large effects That troop with majesty.—Ourself, by monthly course, With reservation of an hundred knights, By you to be sustain’d, shall our abode Make with you by due turns. Only we still retain The name, and all the additions to a king; The sway, Revenue, execution of the rest, Beloved sons, be yours; which to confirm, This coronet part betwixt you. [Giving the crown.]

Kent.
Royal Lear, Whom I have ever honour’d as my king, Lov’d as my father, as my master follow’d, As my great patron thought on in my prayers.—

Lear.
The bow is bent and drawn; make from the shaft.

Kent.
Let it fall rather, though the fork invade The region of my heart: be Kent unmannerly Think’st thou that duty shall have dread to speak When power to flattery bows? To plainness honour’s bound When majesty falls to folly. Reverse thy state;

Lear.
Kent, on thy life, no more.

Kent.
My life I never held but as a pawn To wage against thine enemies; nor fear to lose it, Thy safety being the motive. Lear.

Kent.
See better, Lear; and let me still remain The true blank of thine eye.

Lear.
Now, by Apollo,—

Kent.
Now by Apollo, king, Thou swear’st thy gods in vain.

Lear.
O vassal! miscreant!
[Laying his hand on his sword.]

Alb. and Corn.
Dear sir, forbear!

Kent.
Do; Kill thy physician, and the fee bestow Upon the foul disease. Revoke thy gift, Or, whilst I can vent clamour from my throat, I’ll tell thee thou dost evil. Lear. Hear me, recreant! On thine allegiance, hear me!— Since thou hast sought to make us break our vow,— Which we durst never yet,—and with strain’d pride To come between our sentence and our power,— Which nor our nature nor our place can bear,— Our potency made good, take thy reward. Five days we do allot thee for provision To shield thee from diseases of the world; And on the sixth to turn thy hated back Upon our kingdom: if, on the tenth day following, Thy banish’d trunk be found in our dominions, The moment is thy death. 

Kent.
Fare thee well, king: sith thus thou wilt appear, Freedom lives hence, and banishment is here.— [To Cordelia.] The gods to their dear shelter take thee, maid, That justly think’st and hast most rightly said! [To Regan and Goneril.] And your large speeches may your deeds approve, That good effects may spring from words of love.— Thus Kent, O princes, bids you all adieu; He’ll shape his old course in a country new.
[Exit.]
[Flourish. Re-enter Gloster, with France, Burgundy, and
Attendants.]

Glou.
Here’s France and Burgundy, my noble lord.

Lear.
My Lord of Burgundy, We first address toward you, who with this king Hath rivall’d for our daughter: what in the least Will you require in present dower with her, Or cease your quest of love?

Bur.
Most royal majesty, I crave no more than hath your highness offer’d, Nor will you tender less.

Lear.
Right noble Burgundy, When she was dear to us, we did hold her so; But now her price is fall’n. Sir, there she stands: If aught within that little seeming substance, Or all of it, with our displeasure piec’d, And nothing more, may fitly like your grace, She’s there, and she is yours.

Bur.
I know no answer.

Lear.
Will you, with those infirmities she owes, Unfriended, new-adopted to our hate, Dower’d with our curse, and stranger’d with our oath, Take her, or leave her?

Bur.
Pardon me, royal sir; Election makes not up on such conditions.

Lear.
Then leave her, sir; for, by the power that made me, I tell you all her wealth.—[To France] 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 asham’d Almost to acknowledge hers.

France.
This is most strange, That she, who even but now was your best object, The argument of your praise, balm of your age, Most best, most dearest, should in this trice of time Commit a thing so monstrous, to dismantle So many folds of favour. Sure her offence Must be of such unnatural degree That monsters it, or your fore-vouch’d affection Fall’n into taint; which to believe of her Must be a faith that reason without miracle Should never plant in me.

Cor.
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’t before I speak,—that you make known It is no vicious blot, murder, or foulness, No unchaste action or dishonour’d step, That hath depriv’d me of your grace and favour; But even for want of that for which I am richer,— A still-soliciting eye, and such a tongue As I am glad I have not, though not to have it Hath lost me in your liking.

Lear.
Better thou Hadst not been born than not to have pleas’d me better.

France.
Is it but this,—a tardiness in nature Which often leaves the history unspoke That it intends to do?—My lord of Burgundy, What say you to the lady? Love’s not love When it is mingled with regards that stands Aloof from the entire point. Will you have her? She is herself a dowry.

Bur.
Royal king, Give but that portion which yourself propos’d, And here I take Cordelia by the hand, Duchess of Burgundy.

Lear.
Nothing: I have sworn; I am firm.

Bur.
I am sorry, then, you have so lost a father That you must lose a husband.

Cor.
Peace be with Burgundy! Since that respects of fortune are his love, I shall not be his wife.

France.
Fairest Cordelia, that art most rich, being poor;
Most choice, forsaken; and most lov’d, despis’d!
Thee and thy virtues here I seize upon:
Be it lawful, I take up what’s cast away.
Gods, gods! ’tis strange that from their cold’st neglect
My love should kindle to inflam’d respect.—
Thy dowerless daughter, king, thrown to my chance,
Is queen of us, of ours, and our fair France:
Not all the dukes of waterish Burgundy
Can buy this unpriz’d precious maid of me.—
Bid them farewell, Cordelia, though unkind:
Thou losest here, a better where to find.

Lear.
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.

[Flourish. Exeunt Lear, Burgundy, Cornwall, Albany, Gloster, and Attendants.]

France.
Bid farewell to your sisters.

Cor.
The jewels of our father, with wash’d eyes
Cordelia leaves you: 
And, like a sister, am most loath to call
Your faults as they are nam’d. 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.

Reg.
Prescribe not us our duties.

Gon.
Let your study Be to content your lord, who hath receiv’d you
At fortune’s alms. You have obedience scanted,
And well are worth the want that you have wanted.

Cor.
: Who cover faults, at last shame them derides. Well may you prosper!

France.
Come, my fair Cordelia.
[Exeunt France and Cordelia.]

Gon.
Sister, it is not little I have to say of what most nearly appertains to us both. I think our father will hence to-night.

Reg.
That’s most certain, and with you; next month with us.

Gon.

Reg.
‘Tis the infirmity of his age: yet he hath ever but slenderly known himself.

Gon.
The best and soundest of his time hath been but rash; then must we look to receive from his age, not alone the imperfections of long-ingraffed condition, but therewithal the unruly waywardness that infirm and choleric years bring with them.

Reg.
Such unconstant starts are we like to have from him as this of Kent’s banishment.

Gon.
There is further compliment of leave-taking between France and him. : if our father carry authority with such dispositions as he bears, this last surrender of his will but offend us.

Reg.

We shall further think of it.

Gon.