passion
That in the natures of their lords rebel,
Bring oil to fire, snow to their colder moods,
Renege, affirm, and turn their halcyon beaks
With every gale 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 send you 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’s his offence?
KENT His countenance likes me not.
CORNWALL
No more perchance does mine, or his, or 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 a fellow
Who, having been praised for bluntness, doth affect
A saucy roughness, and constrains the garb
Quite from his nature. He cannot flatter, he.
He must be 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 sooth, or in sincere verity,
Under the allowance of your grand aspect,
Whose influence, like the wreath of radiant fire
In flickering Phoebus’ front—
CORNWALL What mean’st thou 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’s the 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, conjunct, and flattering his displeasure,
Tripped me behind; being down, insulted, railed,
And put upon him such a deal of man that
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 ⌈calling⌉ Bring forth the stocks, ho!—
You stubborn, ancient knave, you reverend braggart,
We’ll teach you.
KENT I am too old to learn.
Call not your stocks for me. I serve the King,
On whose employments I was sent to you.
You should 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 could not use me so.
REGAN Sir, being his knave, I will.
⌈Stocks brought out⌉
CORNWALL
This is a fellow of the selfsame nature
Our sister speaks of.—Come, bring away the stocks.
GLOUCESTER
Let me beseech your grace not to do so.
His fault is much, and the good King his master
Will check him for’t. Your purposed low correction
Is such as basest and contemnèd wretches
For pilf’rings and most common trespasses
Are punished with. The King must take it ill
That he’s so slightly valued in his messenger,
Should have him thus restrained.
CORNWALL I’ll answer that.
REGAN
My sister may receive it much more worse
To have her gentlemen abused, assaulted,
For following her affairs. Put in his legs.
They put Kent in the stocks
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 you, 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 took.
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 overwatched,
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. While I may scape