KENT

That such a slave as this should wear a sword,

Who wears no honesty. Such smiling rogues as these,

Like rats, oft bite the holy cords a-twain

Which are too intrince t’unloose, smooth every

passion

That in the natures of their lords rebel;

Being oil to fire, snow to the colder moods,

Renege, affirm, and turn their halcyon beaks

With every gall and vary of their masters,

Knowing naught, like dogs, but following.

⌈To Oswald⌉ A plague upon your epileptic visage!

Smile you my speeches as I were a fool?

Goose, an I had you upon Sarum Plain

I’d drive ye cackling home to Camelot.

CORNWALL

What, art thou mad, old fellow?

GLOUCESTER ⌈to Kent⌉ How fell you out? Say that.

KENT

No contraries hold more antipathy Than I and such a knave.

CORNWALL

Why dost thou call him knave?

What is his fault?

KENT His countenance likes me not.

CORNWALL

No more perchance does mine, nor his, nor hers.

KENT

Sir, ’tis my occupation to be plain:

I have seen better faces in my time

Than stands on any shoulder that I see

Before me at this instant.

CORNWALL This is some fellow

Who, having been praised for bluntness, doth affect

A saucy roughness, and constrains the garb

Quite from his nature. He cannot flatter, he;

An honest mind and plain, he must speak truth.

An they will take’t, so; if not, he’s plain.

These kind of knaves I know, which in this plainness

Harbour more craft and more corrupter ends

Than twenty silly-ducking observants

That stretch their duties nicely.

KENT

Sir, in good faith, in sincere verity,

Under th‘allowance of your great aspect,

Whose influence, like the wreath of radiant fire

On flick’ring Phoebus’ front—

CORNWALL

What mean’st by this?

KENT To go out of my dialect, which you discommend so much. I know, sir, I am no flatterer. He that beguiled you in a plain accent was a plain knave, which for my part I will not be, though I should win your displeasure to entreat me to’t.

CORNWALL (to Oswald)

What was th’offence you gave him?

OSWALD

I never gave him any.

It pleased the King his master very late

To strike at me upon his misconstruction,

When he, compact, and flattering his displeasure,

Tripped me behind; being down, insulted, railed,

And put upon him such a deal of man

That worthied him, got praises of the King

For him attempting who was self-subdued,

And in the fleshment of this dread exploit

Drew on me here again.

KENT

None of these rogues and cowards

But Ajax is their fool.

CORNWALL

Fetch forth the stocks!

⌈Exeunt some servants⌉

You stubborn, ancient knave, you reverend braggart,

We’ll teach you.

KENT

Sir, I am too old to learn.

Call not your stocks for me. I serve the King,

On whose employment I was sent to you.

You shall do small respect, show too bold malice

Against the grace and person of my master,

Stocking his messenger.

CORNWALL ⌈calling⌉

Fetch forth the stocks!—

As I have life and honour, there shall he sit till noon.

REGAN

Till noon?—till night, my lord, and all night too.

KENT

Why, madam, if I were your father’s dog

You should not use me so.

REGAN

Sir, being his knave, I will.

Stocks brought out

CORNWALL

This is a fellow of the selfsame colour

Our sister speaks of.—Come, bring away the stocks.

GLOUCESTER

Let me beseech your grace not to do so.

The King his master needs must take it ill

That he, so slightly valued in his messenger,

Should have him thus restrained.

CORNWALL I’ll answer that.

⌈Theg put Kent in the stocks⌉

REGAN

My sister may receive it much more worse

To have her gentlemen abused, assaulted.

CORNWALL Come, my good lord, away!

Exeunt all but Gloucester and Kent

GLOUCESTER

I am sorry for thee, friend. ’Tis the Duke’s pleasure,

Whose disposition, all the world well knows,

Will not be rubbed nor stopped. I’ll entreat for thee.

KENT

Pray do not, sir. I have watched and travelled hard.

Some time I shall sleep out; the rest I’ll whistle.

A good man’s fortune may grow out at heels.

Give you good morrow.

GLOUCESTER

The Duke’s to blame in this; ’twill be ill taken. Exit

KENT

Good King, that must approve the common say:

Thou out of heaven’s benediction com’st

To the warm sun.

⌈He takes out a letter⌉

Approach, thou beacon to this under globe,

That by thy comfortable beams I may

Peruse this letter. Nothing almost sees miracles

But misery. I know ‘tis from Cordelia,

Who hath now fortunately been informed

Of my obscured course, and shall find time

For this enormous state, seeking to give

Losses their remedies. All weary and o’erwatched,

Take vantage, heavy eyes, not to behold

This shameful lodging. Fortune, good night;

Smile once more; turn thy wheel.

He sleeps

Enter Edgar

EDGAR

I heard myself proclaimed,

And by the happy hollow of a tree

Escaped the hunt. No port is free, no place

That guard and most unusual vigilance

Does not attend my taking. Whiles I may scape

I will preserve myself, and am bethought