 | King Lear |  |
ACT III.
SCENE a Heath.A Storm, with Thunder and Lightning.
Enter Lear and Kent.
Lear.
Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! rage, blow!
You cataracts, and hurricanoes, spout
Till you have drench'd our steeples, drown'd the cocks!
You sulph'rous and thought-executing fires,
Vaunt-couriers of oak-cleaving thunderbolts,
Singe my white head. And thou, all-shaking thunder,
Strike flat the thick rotundity o'th' world;
Crack nature's mould; all germins spill at once,
That make ingrateful man.
Kent.
Not all my best entreaties can persuade him
Into some needful shelter, or to 'bide
This poor, slight cov'ring on his aged head,
Expos'd to this wild war of earth and heav'n.
[Thunder.
Lear.
Rumble thy belly full! Spit, fire; spout, rain:
Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my daughters.
I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness;
I never gave you kingdoms, call'd you children;
You owe me no subscription. Then let fall
Your horrible pleasure—here I stand your slave;
But yet I call you servile ministers,
That have, with two pernicious daughters, join'd
Your high-engender'd battles 'gainst a head
So old and white as this. [Thunder.]
Oh, oh! 'tis foul!
Kent.
Hard by, sir, is a hovel that will lend
Some shelter from this tempest.
Lear.
No, I will be the pattern of all patience;
I will say nothing.
Kent.
Alas, sir, things that love night,
Love not such nights as these: the wrathful skies
Gallow the very wand'rers of the dark,
And make them keep their caves. Since I was man,
Such sheets of fire, such bursts of horrid thunder,
Such groans of roaring wind and rain, I never
Remember to have heard. Man's nature cannot carry
Th' affliction, nor the force.
Lear.
Let the great gods,
That keep this dreadful pudder o'er our heads,
Find out their enemies now. Tremble, thou wretch,
That hast within thee undivulged crimes,
Unwhipt of justice. Hide thee, thou bloody hand;
Thou perjure, and thou similar of virtue,
That art incestuous. Caitiff, shake to pieces,
That under covert, and convenient seeming,
Hast practis'd on man's life!—Close pent-up guilts,
Rive your concealing continents, and ask
These dreadful summoners grace.—I am a man,
More sinn'd against than sinning.
Kent.
Good sir, to th' hovel.
Lear.
My wits begin to turn.
Come on, my boy. How dost, my boy? Art cold?
I'm cold myself. Where is the straw, my fellow?
The art of our necessities is strange,
That can make vile things precious. Come, your hovel,
That's sorry yet for thee.
[Exeunt.
The Third Act begins with awful solemnity: a violent elementary conflict prepares our alarmed senses for the poor, discarded old man's approach, unguarded from all the inclemencies of night, and tumultuous skies. What Lear utters in the scene is emphatically characteristic, and teems with instructive precepts, most poetically connected.
This speech is a fine panegyric upon conscious innocence, and a most stinging reproach to guilt of every kind.
These are expressions of warm regard, even amidst frenzy, for an assisting friend, and shew melting, generous gratefulness; the tribute of a good heart.
Enter Gloster and Edmund.
Glo.
Alack, alack, Edmund, I like not this unnatural
dealing. When I desired their leave that I might
pity him, they took from me the use of mine own
house; charg'd me, on pain of perpetual displeasure,
neither to speak of him, entreat for him, or any way
sustain him.
Edm.
Most savage, and unnatural!
Glo.
Go to; say you nothing. There is division between
the dukes; and a worse matter than that: I
have received a letter, this night; 'tis dangerous to be
spoken. I have locked the letter in my closet. These
injuries the king now bears, will be revenged home.
There is part of a power already footed; we must incline
to the king; I will look for him, and privily relieve
him. Go you and maintain talk with the duke,
that my charity be not of him perceived. If he ask
for me, I am ill, and gone to bed. If I die for it, as
no less is threaten'd me, the king, my old master,
must be relieved.
[Exit.
Edm.
This courtesy forbid thee, shall the duke
Instantly know; and of that letter too.
This seems a fair deserving, and must draw me
That which my father loses: no less than all.
The younger rises, when the old doth fall.
[Retires.
Gloster returns, followed by Cordelia and Arante; Edmund observing at a distance.
Cord.
Turn, Gloster, turn; by the sacred pow'rs,
I do conjure you give my griefs a hearing.
For you were always styl'd the just and good.
Glost.
What wou'dst thou, princess? Rise, and speak thy griefs.
Cor.
Nay, you shall promise to redress 'em too,
Or here I'll kneel for ever. I entreat
Thy succour for a father, and a king!
An injur'd father, and an injur'd king!
Edm.
O charming sorrow! How her tears adorn her.
Glo.
Consider, princess,
For whom thou begg'st; 'tis for the king that wrong'd thee.
Cord.
O name not that; he did not, cou'd not wrong me.
Nay, muse not, Gloster, for it is too likely
This injur'd king, e'er this, is past your aid,
And gone distracted with his savage wrongs.
Edm.
I'll gaze no more—and yet my eyes are charm'd.
Cord.
Or, what if it be worse;
As 'tis too probable this furious night
Has pierc'd his tender body; the bleak winds
And cold rain chill'd, or light'ning struck him dead;
If it be so your promise is discharg'd,
And I have only one poor boon to beg,
With my torn robes to wrap his hoary head,
With my torn hair to bind his hands and feet,
Then, with a show'r of tears,
To wash his clay-smear'd cheeks, and die beside him.
Glost.
Rise, fair Cordelia, thou hast piety
Enough t'atone for both thy sister's crimes:
I have already plotted to restore
My injur'd master; and thy virtue tells me
We shall succeed, and suddenly.
[Exit.
Cord.
Dispatch, Arante. We'll instantly
Go seek the king, and bring him some relief.
Ar.
How, madam! are you ignorant
Of what your impious sisters have decreed?
Immediate death for any that relieve him.
Cord.
I cannot dread the furies, in this case.
Ar.
In such a night as this! Consider, madam,
For many miles about, there's scarce a bush
To shelter in.
Cord.
Therefore no shelter for the king;
And more our charity to find him out.
What have not women dar'd for vicious love?
And we'll be shining proofs that they can dare
For piety as much. [Thunder.]
Blow winds, and lightnings fall,
Bold in my virgin innocence I'll fly,
My royal father to relieve or die.
[Exit.
Edm.
We'll instantly
Go seek the king.—Ha! ha! a lucky change!
That virtue which I fear'd would be my hind'rance,
Has prov'd the bond to my design:
I'll bribe two ruffians shall at a distance follow,
And seize 'em in some desert place; and there
Whilst one retains her t'other shall return
T'inform me where she's lodg'd. I'll be disguis'd, too,
Whilst they are poching for me, I'll to the duke;
Where, like the vig'rous Jove, I will enjoy
This Semele in a storm.
[Exit.
The lines hereafter, taken from Shakespeare's original, are such an enrichment to the part, that we wish every lady who represents Cordelia, would speak them.
Cor.Oh, speak not thus! He did not, could not wrong me.
Besides, I have heard this poor, unhappy king,
Contending with the fretful elements,
Bids the wind blow the earth into the sea,
Or swell the curled waters 'bove the main;
That things might change, or cease; tears his white hair,
Which the impetuous blasts with eyeless rage,
Catch in their fury, and make nothing of;
Strives, in his little world of man, to out-scorn
The to-and-fro conflicting winds and rain.
This night, wherein the cub-drawn bear would couch,
The lion, and the belly-pinched wolf,
Keep their fur dry; unbonetted he runs,
And bids what will take all.
This speech contains a prodigious fine flow of filial piety and affection; a good actress is happy to have the speaking of it, which cannot fail to stood eyes and move hands.
Kent.
Here is the place, my lord. Good my lord, enter.
The tyranny of this open night's too rough
For nature to endure.
Lear.
Let me alone.
Kent.
Good my lord, enter here.
Lear.
Wilt break my heart?
Kent.
I had rather break my own. Good my lord, enter.
Lear.
Thou think'st 'tis much that this contentious storm
Invades us to the skin; so 'tis to thee;
But where the greater malady is fix'd,
The lesser is scarce felt. When the mind's free,
The body's delicate; the tempest in my mind
Doth from my senses take all feeling else,
Save what beats there. Filial ingratitude!
Is it not as this mouth should tear this hand,
For lifting food to't?—But I'll punish home;
No, I will weep no more—In such a night,
To shut me out?—Pour on, I will endure.
In such a night as this! O Regan, Goneril,
Your old, kind father, whose frank heart gave all—
O, that way madness lies! let me shun that!
No more of that.
Kent.
Good my lord, enter here.
Lear.
Pr'ythee, go in thyself; seek thine own ease;
This tempest will not give me leave to ponder
On things would hurt me more—but I'll go in.
In; thou go first. You houseless poverty—
Nay, get thee in; I'll pray, and then I'll sleep—
Poor, naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are,
That bide the pelting of this pityless storm!
How shall your houseless heads, and unfed sides,
Your loop'd and window'd raggedness, defend you
From seasons such as these?—O, I have ta'en
Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel,
That thou may'st shake the superflux to them,
And shew the heav'ns more just.
Edg.
(within)
Fathom and half, fathom and half! poor Tom.
Kent.
What art thou, that dost grumble there i'th'
straw? come forth.
Enter Edgar, disguis'd like a Madman.
Edg.
Away! the foul fiend follows me. Through
the sharp hawthorn blows the cold wind. Humph, go
to thy bed and warm thee. What do I see!
The poor old king bare-headed, and drench'd
In this foul storm! Professing syrens,
Are all your protestations come to this?
[Aside.
Lear.
Did'st thou give all to thy daughters? and art
thou come to this?
Edg.
Who gives any thing to poor Tom? whom
the fould fiend hath led through fire and through
flame, through ford and whirlpool, o'er bog and
quagmire; that hath laid knives under his pillow,
and halters in his pew; set rasbane by his porridge;
made him proud of heart, to ride on a bay trotting
horse, over four-inch'd bridges, to course his own
shadow for a traitor,—bless thy five wits; Tom's
a-cold. O do, de, do, de, do, de;—bless thee from
whirl-winds, star-blasting, and taking; do poor Tom
some charity, whom the foul fiend vexes. There
could I have him now, and there, and here again,
and there.
Lear.
What, have his daughters brought him to this pass?
Couldst thou save nothing? Didst thou give 'em all?
He hath no daughters, sir.
Lear.
Death! traitor, nothing could have subdu'd
nature
Edg.
Pillicock sat on pillicock-hill, alow, alow, loo,
loo!
Lear.
Is it the fashion, that discarded fathers
Should have such little mercy on their flesh?
Ludicrous punishment! 'Twas this flesh begot
Those pelican daughters.
Edg.
Take heed o'th' fould fiend; obey thy parents;
keep thy word justly; swear not; commit not
with man's sworn spouse; set not thy sweet-heart
on proud array. Tom's a-cold.
Lear.
What hast thou been?
Edg.
A serving-man, proud in heart and mind;
that curl'd my hair, wore gloves in my cap, serv'd
the lust of my mistress's heart, and did the act of
darkness with her: swore as many oaths as I spake
words, and broke them in the sweet face of heav'n.
One that slept in the contriving lust, and wak'd to
do it; wine lov'd I deeply; dice dearly; and in women,
out-paramour'd the Turk; false of heart, light
of ear,
bloody of hand; hog in sloth, fox in stealth,
wolf in greediness, dog in madness, lion in prey. Let
not the creaking of shoes, nor the rustling of silks,
betray thy poor heart to woman. Keep thy foot out
of brothels, thy hand out of plackets, thy pen from
lender's books; and defy the foul fiend. Still through
the hawthorn blows the cold wind.
[Storm still.
Lear.
Thou wert better in thy grave, than to answer
with thy uncover'd body this extremity of the skies.
Is man no more than this? Consider him well. Thou
ow'st the worm no silk, the beast no hide, the sheep
no wool, the cat no perfume. Ha! here's two of
us are sophisticated. Thou art the thing itself; unaccommodated
man is no more, but such a poor, bare,
come, unbutton here.
[Tearing off his cloaths.
Kent.
O pity, sir; where is the patience now you
have so often boasted to retain.
Lear.
One point I had forgot. What's your name?
Edg.
Poor Tom, that eats the swimming frog, the
wall-newt, and the water-newt; that in the fury of his
heart, when the foul fiend rages, eats cow-dung for
sallads, swallows the old rat, and the ditch-dog, that
drinks the green mantle of the standing pool, that's
whipt from tithing to tithing, that has three suits to
his back, six shirts to his body:
But rats and mice, and such small deer,
Have been Tom's food, for seven long year.
Beware, my follower; peace, smulk'n, peace, thou
foul fiend.
Lear.
One word more, but be sure true counsel;
Tell me, is a madman a gentleman or a yeoman?
Kent.
All the power of his wits has given way to
his impatience.
Edg.
Fraterretto calls me, and tells me, Nero is an
angler in the lake of darkness. Pray, Innocent, and
beware the foul fiend.
Lear.
Right, ha! ha! Was it not pleasant to have
a thousand with red hot spits come hissing in upon 'em.
Edg.
My tears begin to take his part so much,
They mar my counterfeiting.
[Aside.
Lear.
The little dogs and all, Tray, Blanch, and
Sweet-heart, see they bark at me.
Edg.
Be thy mouth, or black, or white,
Tooth, that poisons if it bite;
Mastiff, grey-hound, mungrel grim,
Hound, or spaniel, brach, or hym;
Bob-tail, hight, or trundle-tail,
Tom will make 'em weep and wail;
For with throwing thus my head,
Dogs leap the hatch, and all are fled.
Come, march to wakes, and fairs, and market
towns.—Poor Tom, thy horn is dry.
You, sir, I entertain you for one of my
hundred, only I don't like the fashion of your garments;
you'll say they're Persian; but no matter, let
'em be changed.
Enter Gloster.
Edg.
This is the foul Flibertigibet; he begins at
curfew, and walks at first cock; be gives the web,
and the pin; knits the elflock; squints the eye, and
makes the hair-lip; mildews the white wheat, and
hurts the poor creature of the earth.
He met the night-mare and her nine-fold,
'Twas there he did appoint her;
He bid her alight, and her troth plight,
And arroynt the witch arroynt her.
Lear.
What's he?
Glo.
What! has your grace no better company?
Edg.
The prince of darkness is a gentleman; Modo
he is call'd, and Mahu.
Glo.
Go in with me, sir.
My duty cannot suffer me to obey in all your daughters
hard commands, tho' their injunction be to bar
my doors, and let this tyrannous night take hold upon
you. Yet have I ventur'd to come to seek you out,
and bring you where both fire and food are ready.
Kent.
Good my lord, take his offer.
Lear.
First let me talk with this philosopher.
What is the cause of thunder?
Kent.
My good lord, take his offer; go into the house.
Lear.
I'll talk a word with this same learned Theban.
What is your study?
Edg.
How to prevent the fiend, and to kill vermin.
Lear.
Let me ask you a word in private.
Kent.
Importune him to go, my lord; his wits
begin to unsettle.
Glo.
Can'st blame him? His daughters seek his
death; this bedlam but disturbs him the more. Fellow,
be gone.
Child Rowland to the dark tow'r came,
His word was still fi, fo, fum,
I smell the blood of a British man.—Oh! Torture!
[Exit.
Good sir, along with us.
Lear.
You say right, let 'em anatomize Regan, for
what breeds about her heart; is there any cause in
nature, for these hard hearts?
Kent.
I beseech your grace.
Lear.
Hist!—Make no noise, make no noise—
draw the curtains—so, so; we'll to supper i'th' morning.
Oh! oh! oh!
[He sleeps.
Glo.
Good friend, I prithee take him in thy arms,
I have o'er heard a plot upon his life.
There is a litter ready, lay him in't,
And drive towards Dover, friend, where thou shalt meet
Both welcome and protection.
[Gloster and Kent carry him off.
Enter Cordelia and Arante.
Ar.
Dear madam, rest ye here; our search is vain,
Look, here's a shed; beseech ye, enter here.
Cord.
Prithee go thyself, seek thy own ease:
Where the mind's free, the body's delicate.
This tempest but diverts me from the thought
Of what would hurt me more.
Enter two Ruffians. They sieze Cordelia and Arante, who shriek out.
Cord.
Help! murder! help!
Enter Edgar.
Edg.
What cry was that?—Ha! Women seized by ruffians!
Avaunt, ye bloodhounds.
[Drives them off with his quarter-staff.
O speak, what are ye that appear to be
O'th' tender sex, and yet unguarded wander
Through the dread mazes of this dreadful night,
Imperfect glimmerings?
Cord.
First say, what art thou?
Our guardian angel, that wert pleas'd t'assume
That horrid shape to fright the ravishers?
We'll kneel to thee.
Edg.
O my tumultuous blood!
By all my trembling veins Cordelia's voice!
'Tis she herself!—My senses sure conform
To my wild garb, and I am mad indeed.
[Aside.
Cord.
Whate'er thou art, befriend a wretched virgin;
And, if thou canst direct our weary search.
Edg.
Who relieves poor Tom, that sleeps on the nettle,
With the hedge-pig for his pillow? O torture!
Ar.
Alack! madam, a poor wand'ring lunatic.
Cord.
And yet his language seem'd but now well temper'd.
Speak, friend, to one more wretched than thyself:
And if thou hast one interval of sense,
Inform us, if thou canst, where we may find
A poor old man, who through this heath has stray'd,
The tedious night.—Speak, saw'st thou such a one?
Edg.
The king her father, whom she's come to seek,
Through all the terrors of this night: O gods!
That such amazing piety, such tenderness
Shou'd yet to me be cruel.
[Aside.
Yes, fair one, such a one was lately here,
And is convey'd by some that came to seek him,
To a neighb'ring cottage; but distinctly where,
I know not.
Cord.
Blessings on 'em;
Let's find him out, Arante, for thou seest
We are in Heaven's protection.
[Going off.
Edg.
O Cordelia!
Cord.
Ha!—Thou know'st my name.
Edg.
As you did once know Edgar's.
Cord.
Edgar!
Edg.
The poor remains of Edgar, what your scorn
Has left him.
Do we wake, Arante?
Edg.
My father seeks my life, which I preserv'd,
In hopes of some blest minute to oblige
Distrest Cordelia, and the gods have given it;
That thought alone prevail'd with me to take
This frantic dress, to make the earth my bed,
With these bare limbs all change of seasons bide,
Noon's scorching heat, and midnight's piercing cold,
To feed on offals, and to drink with herds,
To combat with the winds, and be the sport
Of clowns, or what's more wretched yet, their pity.
But such a fall as this, I grant, was due
To my aspiring love; for 'twas presumptuous,
Though not presumptuously pursued;
For well you know I wore my flames conceal'd,
And silent as the lamps that burn in tombs,
Till you perceiv'd my grief, with modest grace
Drew forth the secret, and then seal'd my pardon.
Cord.
You had your pardon, nor can you challenge more.
Edg.
What do I challenge more?
Such vanity agrees not with these rags,
When in my prosp'rous state, rich Gloster's heir,
You silenc'd my pretences, and enjoin'd me
To trouble you upon that theme no more.
Then what reception must love's language find
From these bare limbs and beggar's humble weeds!
Cord.
Such as a voice of pardon to a wretch condemn'd;
Such as the shouts
Of succouring forces, to a town besieg'd.
Edg.
Ah! what new method now of cruelty?
Cord.
Come to my arms, thou dearest, best of men,
And take the kindest vows that e'er were spoke
By a protesting maid.
Is't possible?
Cord.
By the dear vital stream that bathes my heart,
These hallowed rags of thine, and naked virtue,
These abject tassels, these fantastic shreds,
To me are dearer than the richest pomp,
Of purple monarchs.
[Embracing.
Edg.
Generous, charming maid,
The Gods alone that made, can rate thy worth!
This most amazing excellence shall be
Fame's triumph in succeeding ages, when
Thy bright example shall adorn the scene,
And teach the world perfection.
Cord.
Cold and weary,
We'll rest, a while, Arante, on that straw,
Then forward, to find out the poor old king.
Edg.
Look, I have flint and steel, the implements
Of wand'ring lunatics; I'll strike a light,
And make a fire beneath this shed, to dry
Thy storm-drench'd garments, are thou lie to rest thee;
Then, fierce and wakeful as th' Hesperian dragon,
I'll watch beside thee to protect thy sleep;
Mean while the stars shall dart their kindest beams,
And angels visit my Cordelia's dreams.
[Exeunt into the Hovel.
Through the whole of this scene there is a most masterly and affecting contrast, between real and feigned madness; the latter posts helter-skelter through a laboured variety of incoherent images; the former chiefly adverts to the great cause of his frenzy.
Pelican daughters. This is an emphatic expression, derived from the young pelican's being nourished by the blood of their parent.
However severer criticks than we wish to be, may censure this incident, and the following scene of Tate's, we deem them too pleasing and proper, to be slightly regarded.
Edgar in this speech most happily describes his pitiable situation; and apologizes for his aspiring passion, with becoming modesty.
This sudden warm declaration in her lover's favour, is by no means a breach of delicacy, but displays generous feelings that are most willing to reward merit when in adversity.
Enter Cornwall, Regan, Edmund, Servants. Cornwall with Gloster's Letters.
Corn.
I will have my revenge, 'ere I depart this house.
Regan, see here, a plot upon our state;
'Tis Gloster's character, that has betray'd
His double trust, of subject and of host.
Reg.
Then double be our vengeance; this confirms
The intelligence that we now received,
But who, sir, was the kind discoverer?
Corn.
Our Eagle, quick to spy, and fierce to seize;
Our trusty Edmund.
Reg.
'Twas a noble service.
O Cornwall, take him to thy deepest trust,
And wear him as a jewel at thy heart.
Edm.
Think, sir, how hard a fortune I sustain,
That makes me thus repent of serving you?
[Weeps.
O that this treason had not been, or I
Not the discoverer.
Corn.
Edmund, thou shalt find
A father in our love; and from this minute
We call thee earl of Gloster. But there yet
Remains another justice to be done,
And that's to punish this discarded traitor;
But left thy tender nature should relent
At his just sufferings,
We wish thee to withdraw.
Reg.
The Grotto, sir, within the lower grove,
Has privacy to suit a mourner's thought.
[To Edmund, aside.
Edm.
And there I may expect a comforter—
Ha, madam!
Reg.
What may happen, sir, I know not;
But 'twas a friend's advice.
[Ex. Edmund.
Corn.
Bring in the traitor.
Gloster brought in by Soldiers.
Bind fast his arms.
Glost.
What mean your graces?
You are my guests, pray do me, no foul play.
Corn.
Bind him, I say, hard; harder yet.
[They bind him.
Reg.
Now, traitor, thou shalt find—
Corn.
Speak, rebel, where hast thou sent the king?
Whom, spight of our decree, thou saw'st last night.
Glost.
I'm ty'd to th' stake, and so must stand the course.
Reg.
Say where, and why thou hast conceal'd him?
Because I wou'd not see thy cruel hands
Tear out his poor old eyes, nor thy fierce sister
Carve his anointed flesh; but I shall see
The swift wing'd vengeance overtake such children.
Corn.
See't thou shalt never; slaves perform your work,
Out with those treacherous eyes. Dispatch, I say.
If thou seek vengeance—
[They force Gloster off.
Glost.
(Within.)
He that will think to live, 'till he be old—
Give me some help.—O cruel! oh! ye Gods.
[They put out his Eyes.
Serv.
Hold, hold, my lord, I bar your cruelty;
I cannot love your safety, and give way
To such a barbarous practice.
Corn.
Ha! my villain!
Serv.
I have been your servant from my infancy;
But better service have I never done you,
Than with this boldness.—
Corn.
Take thy death, slave.
Serv.
Nay, then revenge whilst yet my blood is warm.
[Fight.
Reg.
Help here—Are you not hurt, my lord?
[Enter Gloster, blind.
Glost.
Edmund, enkindle all the sparks of nature
To quit this horrid act.
Reg.
Out, treacherous villain,
Thou call'st on him that hates thee. It was he
That broach'd thy treason, shew'd us thy dispatches:
There—read, and save the Cambrian prince a labour.
If thy eyes fail thee, call for spectacles.
Glost.
O my folly!
Then Edgar was abus'd. Kind Gods, forgive me that.
How is't, my lord?
Corn.
Turn out that eyeless villain; let him smell
His way to Cambray.
Regan, I bleed apace; give me your arm.
Glost.
All dark, and comfortless!
Where are those various objects that, but now,
Employ'd my busy eyes?
O misery! What words can sound my grief?
Shut from the living, whilst among the living;
Dark as the grave, amidst the bustling world.
Yet still one way th'extremest fate affords,
And ev'n the blind can find the way to death.
Must I then tamely die, and unreveng'd?
So Lear may fall. No, with these bleeding rings
I will present me to the pitying crowd,
And with the rhetoric of these dropping veins,
Enflame 'em to revenge their king and me;
Then, when the glorious mischief's on the wing,
This lumber from some precipice I'll throw,
And dash it on the ragged flint below;
Whence my freed soul to her bright sphere shall fly,
Through boundless orbs, eternal regions spy,
And (like the sun) be all one glorious eye.
[Ex.
This very insignificant scene, and the savage incident of Gloster's eyes, when alterations were to take place, should have been consigned to oblivion.
These lines should have been preserved:
The sea with such a storm as his bare headIn bell black night endured, would have buoy'd up,
And quench'd the stelled fires:
Yet, poor old heart, be help'd the heav'ns to rain.
If wolves had at thy gate bowl'd that stern Time,
Thou shouldst have said, “Go, porter, turn the key.”
If the mangled, shocking object, who speaks this, was bearable to view, the soliloquy has considerable merit. The mad scenes of the Third Act, are a fine variation of circumstances and action, in the representation; they require a great deal of stage finesse. Cordelia's scene has considerable merit, but all the rest is unworthy of regard: merely food for the plot.
| King Lear | |