 | King Lear |  |
SCENE an open Country.
Enter Edgar.
Yet better thus, and known to be contemn'd,
Than still contemn'd and flatter'd. To be worst,
The lowest, most dejected thing of fortune,
Stands still in esperance; lives not in fear.
The lamentable change is from the best;
The worst returns to laughter. Welcome, then,
Thou unsubstantial air that I embrace!
The wretch that thou hast blown unto the worst,
Owes nothing to thy blasts.
Enter Gloster, led by an Old Man.
But who comes here?
My father poorly led? World, world, O world!
But that thy strange mutations make us wait thee,
Life would not yield to age.
Old Man.
O, my good lord, I have been your tenant,
And your father's tenant, these fourscore years.
Glo.
Away! get thee away! Good friend, be gone;
Thy comforts can do me no good at all:
Thee they may hurt.
Old Man.
You cannot see your way.
Glo.
I have no way, and therefore want no eyes.
I stumbled, when I saw. Full oft 'tis seen,
Our mean secures us; and our mere defects
Prove our commodities. O dear son Edgar,
Might I but live to see thee in my touch,
I'd say I had eyes again!
Old Man.
How now! Who's there?
Edg.
O gods! who is't can say, I'm at the worst?
I'm worse than e'er I was.
Old Man.
'Tis poor mad Tom.
Edg.
And worse I may be, yet.
Old Man.
Fellow, where goest?
Glo.
Is it a beggar man?
Old Man.
Madman and beggar too.
Glo.
He has some reason, else he could not beg.
I'th 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 scarce then friends with him. I've heard more, since.
As flies to wanton boys, are we to th' gods:
They kill us for their sport.
Edg.
How should this be?
Bad is the trade must play the fool to sorrow,
Ang'ring itself and others. Bless thee, master.
Glo.
Is that the naked fellow?
Old Man.
Ay, my lord.
Glo.
Get thee away. If, for my sake,
Thou wilt o'ertake us hence a mile or twain,
I'th way tow'rd Dover, do it for ancient love;
And bring some covering for this naked soul,
Whom I'll entreat to lead me.
Old Man.
Alack, sir, he's mad.
Glo.
'Tis the time's plague, when madmen lead the blind.
Do as I bid; or rather do thy pleasure;
Above the rest, be gone.
Old Man.
I'll bring him the best 'parel that I have,
Come on't what will.
[Exit.
Glo.
Sirrah, naked fellow.
Edg.
Poor Tom's a cold;—I cannot daub it further.
Glo.
Come hither, fellow.
Edg.
And yet I must.
Bless thy sweet eyes, they bleed.
Glo.
Know'st thou the way to Dover?
Edg.
poor Tom hath been scar'd out of his good wits. Bless
thee, good man, from the foul fiend.
Glo.
Here, take this purse, thou whom the heaven's plagues
Have humbled to all strokes. That I am wretched,
Makes thee the happier. Dost thou know Dover?
Edg.
Ay, master.
Glo.
There is a cliff, whose high and bending head
Looks fearfully on the confined deep:
Bring me but to the very brim of it.
And I'll repair the misery thou dost bear,
With something rich about me; from that place
I shall no leading need.
Edg.
Give me thy arm,
Poor Tom shall lead thee.
[A trampling without.
Glo.
Soft, for I hear the tread of passengers.
Enter Kent and Cordelia.
Cord.
Ah me! your fear's too true, it was the king;
I spoke but now, with some that met him
As mad as the vex'd sea; singing aloud,
Crown'd with rank fumiter, and furrow weeds,
With berries, burdocks, violets, daisies, poppies,
And all the idle flowers that grow
In our sustaining corn. Conduct me to him,
And Heav'n so prosper thee.
Kent.
I will, good lady.
Ha, Gloster here!—Turn poor dark man, and hear
A friend's condolement, who, at sight of thine,
Forgets his own distress; thy old true Kent.
Glost.
How Kent! From whence return'd?
Kent.
I have not, since my banishment, been absent;
But in disguise follow'd th'abandon'd king.
'Twas me thou saw'st with him, in the late storm.
Glost.
Let me embrace thee. Had I eyes, I now
Should weep for joy: but let this trickling blood
Suffice instead of tears.
Cord.
O misery!
To whom shall I complain, or in what language?
Forgive, O, wretched man, the piety
That brought thee to this pass. 'Twas I that caus'd it.
I cast me at thy feet, and beg of thee
To crush these weeping eyes to equal darkness,
If that will give thee any recompence.
Edg.
Was ever season so distrest as this?
[Aside.
Glost.
I think Cordelia's voice! Rise, pious princess,
And take a dark man's blessing.
Cord.
O, my Edgar!
My virtue's now grown guilty, works the bane
Of those that do befriend me. Heaven forsakes me;
And when you look that way, it is but just
That you should hate me too.
Edg.
O wave this cutting speech, and spare to wound
A heart that's on the rack.
Glo.
No longer cloud thee, Kent, in that disguise;
There's business for thee, and of noblest weight;
Our injur'd country is, at length, in arms,
Urg'd by the king's inhuman wrongs and mine,
And only want a chief to lead them on.
That task be thine.
Edg.
Brave Britains! then there's life in't yet.
[Aside.
Kent.
Then have we one cast for our fortune, still.
Come, princess, I'll bestow you with the king,
Then on the spur to head these forces.
Farewel, good Gloster, to our conduct trust.
Glost.
And be your cause as prosp'rous as 'tis just.
[Exit.
Let the superfluous and lust-dieted man,
That slaves your ordinance, that will not see,
Because he does not feel, feel your pow'r quickly:
So distribution should undo success,
And each man have enough.
Then it moved her?
Gent.
Not to a rage. Patience and sorrow strove
Which should express her goodliest. You have seen
Sunshine and rain at once; her smiles and tears
Were like a wetter May: those happy smiles
That play'd on her ripe lips, seem'd not to know
What guests were in her eyes; which parted thence
Like pearls from diamonds drop'd—In brief,
Sorrow would be a rarity most beloved,
If all could so come by it.
Kent.
Made she no verbal question?
Gent.
Yes, once or twice she heav'd the name of Father!
Pantingly forth, as if it prest her heart.
Cried, Sisters—sisters—what! i'th' storm! i'th night!
Let pity ne'er believe—There she shook
The holy water from her heav'nly eyes,
And clamour moisten'd her—Then away she started,
To deal with grief alone.
Enter Edgar.
Yet better thus, and known to be contemn'd,
Than still contemn'd and flatter'd. To be worst,
The lowest, most dejected thing of fortune,
Stands still in esperance; lives not in fear.
The lamentable change is from the best;
The worst returns to laughter. Welcome, then,
Thou unsubstantial air that I embrace!
The wretch that thou hast blown unto the worst,
Owes nothing to thy blasts.
Enter Gloster, led by an Old Man.
But who comes here?
My father poorly led? World, world, O world!
But that thy strange mutations make us wait thee,
Life would not yield to age.
Old Man.
O, my good lord, I have been your tenant,
And your father's tenant, these fourscore years.
Glo.
Away! get thee away! Good friend, be gone;
Thy comforts can do me no good at all:
Thee they may hurt.
Old Man.
You cannot see your way.
Glo.
I have no way, and therefore want no eyes.
I stumbled, when I saw. Full oft 'tis seen,
Our mean secures us; and our mere defects
Prove our commodities. O dear son Edgar,
Might I but live to see thee in my touch,
I'd say I had eyes again!
Old Man.
How now! Who's there?
55
O gods! who is't can say, I'm at the worst?
I'm worse than e'er I was.
Old Man.
'Tis poor mad Tom.
Edg.
And worse I may be, yet.
Old Man.
Fellow, where goest?
Glo.
Is it a beggar man?
Old Man.
Madman and beggar too.
Glo.
He has some reason, else he could not beg.
I'th 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 scarce then friends with him. I've heard more, since.
As flies to wanton boys, are we to th' gods:
They kill us for their sport.
Edg.
How should this be?
Bad is the trade must play the fool to sorrow,
Ang'ring itself and others. Bless thee, master.
Glo.
Is that the naked fellow?
Old Man.
Ay, my lord.
Glo.
Get thee away. If, for my sake,
Thou wilt o'ertake us hence a mile or twain,
I'th way tow'rd Dover, do it for ancient love;
And bring some covering for this naked soul,
Whom I'll entreat to lead me.
Old Man.
Alack, sir, he's mad.
Glo.
'Tis the time's plague, when madmen lead the blind.
Do as I bid; or rather do thy pleasure;
Above the rest, be gone.
Old Man.
I'll bring him the best 'parel that I have,
Come on't what will.
[Exit.
Glo.
Sirrah, naked fellow.
Edg.
Poor Tom's a cold;—I cannot daub it further.
Glo.
Come hither, fellow.
Edg.
And yet I must.
Bless thy sweet eyes, they bleed.
Glo.
Know'st thou the way to Dover?
Edg.
Both stile and gate, horse-way and foot-path;
56
thee, good man, from the foul fiend.
Glo.
Here, take this purse, thou whom the heaven's plagues
Have humbled to all strokes. That I am wretched,
Makes thee the happier. Dost thou know Dover?
Edg.
Ay, master.
Glo.
There is a cliff, whose high and bending head
Looks fearfully on the confined deep:
Bring me but to the very brim of it.
And I'll repair the misery thou dost bear,
With something rich about me; from that place
I shall no leading need.
Edg.
Give me thy arm,
Poor Tom shall lead thee.
[A trampling without.
Glo.
Soft, for I hear the tread of passengers.
Enter Kent and Cordelia.
Cord.
Ah me! your fear's too true, it was the king;
I spoke but now, with some that met him
As mad as the vex'd sea; singing aloud,
Crown'd with rank fumiter, and furrow weeds,
With berries, burdocks, violets, daisies, poppies,
57
In our sustaining corn. Conduct me to him,
And Heav'n so prosper thee.
Kent.
I will, good lady.
Ha, Gloster here!—Turn poor dark man, and hear
A friend's condolement, who, at sight of thine,
Forgets his own distress; thy old true Kent.
Glost.
How Kent! From whence return'd?
Kent.
I have not, since my banishment, been absent;
But in disguise follow'd th'abandon'd king.
'Twas me thou saw'st with him, in the late storm.
Glost.
Let me embrace thee. Had I eyes, I now
Should weep for joy: but let this trickling blood
Suffice instead of tears.
Cord.
O misery!
To whom shall I complain, or in what language?
Forgive, O, wretched man, the piety
That brought thee to this pass. 'Twas I that caus'd it.
I cast me at thy feet, and beg of thee
To crush these weeping eyes to equal darkness,
If that will give thee any recompence.
Edg.
Was ever season so distrest as this?
[Aside.
Glost.
I think Cordelia's voice! Rise, pious princess,
And take a dark man's blessing.
Cord.
O, my Edgar!
My virtue's now grown guilty, works the bane
Of those that do befriend me. Heaven forsakes me;
And when you look that way, it is but just
That you should hate me too.
Edg.
O wave this cutting speech, and spare to wound
A heart that's on the rack.
Glo.
No longer cloud thee, Kent, in that disguise;
58
Our injur'd country is, at length, in arms,
Urg'd by the king's inhuman wrongs and mine,
And only want a chief to lead them on.
That task be thine.
Edg.
Brave Britains! then there's life in't yet.
[Aside.
Kent.
Then have we one cast for our fortune, still.
Come, princess, I'll bestow you with the king,
Then on the spur to head these forces.
Farewel, good Gloster, to our conduct trust.
Glost.
And be your cause as prosp'rous as 'tis just.
[Exit.
This is a fine moral reflection, rather obscurely expressed: to us it means, that man, amidst the various disappointments and vicissitudes of this world, could not, but for hope, wait the approach of old age.
Edgar, in his soliloquy that begins the act, says he is blown to the worst; but here very morally retracts that precipitate assertion, seeing his mangled father. Scarce any state of life is so bad, but it might be worse—hence misery often collects patience from calamity.
These lines, we think, should be retained:
Heav'ns 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 pow'r quickly:
So distribution should undo success,
And each man have enough.
There is in Shakespeare, a scene between Kent and a Gentleman, wherein Cordelia's concern for her father is so delightfully depicted, that we must present our readers with the striking part of it.
Kent.Then it moved her?
Gent.
Not to a rage. Patience and sorrow strove
Which should express her goodliest. You have seen
Sunshine and rain at once; her smiles and tears
Were like a wetter May: those happy smiles
That play'd on her ripe lips, seem'd not to know
What guests were in her eyes; which parted thence
Like pearls from diamonds drop'd—In brief,
Sorrow would be a rarity most beloved,
If all could so come by it.
Kent.
Made she no verbal question?
Gent.
Yes, once or twice she heav'd the name of Father!
Pantingly forth, as if it prest her heart.
Cried, Sisters—sisters—what! i'th' storm! i'th night!
Let pity ne'er believe—There she shook
The holy water from her heav'nly eyes,
And clamour moisten'd her—Then away she started,
To deal with grief alone.
Though the above description is given of Cordelia as queen of France, it might well and ought to have been brought into the alteration.
| King Lear | |