 | King Lear |  |
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.
| King Lear | |