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Lear. How now Daughter? what makes that Frontlet |
on? You are too much of late i'th' frowne |
Foole. Thou wast a pretty fellow when thou hadst no |
need to care for her frowning, now thou art an O without |
a figure, I am better then thou art now, I am a Foole, |
thou art nothing. Yes forsooth I will hold my tongue, so |
your face bids me, though you say nothing. |
Mum, mum, he that keepes nor crust, nor crum, |
Weary of all, shall want some. That's a sheal'd Pescod |
Gon. Not only Sir this, your all-lycenc'd Foole, |
But other of your insolent retinue |
Do hourely Carpe and Quarrell, breaking forth |
In ranke, and (not to be endur'd) riots Sir. |
I had thought by making this well knowne vnto you, |
To haue found a safe redresse, but now grow fearefull |
By what your selfe too late haue spoke and done, |
That you protect this course, and put it on |
By your allowance, which if you should, the fault |
Would not scape censure, nor the redresses sleepe, |
Which in the tender of a wholesome weale, |
Mighty in their working do you that offence, |
Which else were shame, that then necessitie |
Will call discreet proceeding |
Foole. For you know Nunckle, the Hedge-Sparrow |
fed the Cuckoo so long, that it's had it head bit off by it |
young, so out went the Candle, and we were left darkling |
Lear. Are you our Daughter? |
Gon. I would you would make vse of your good wisedome |
(Whereof I know you are fraught), and put away |
These dispositions, which of late transport you |
From what you rightly are |
Foole. May not an Asse know, when the Cart drawes |
the Horse? |
Whoop Iugge I loue thee |
Lear. Do's any heere know me? |
This is not Lear: |
Do's Lear walke thus? Speake thus? Where are his eies? |
Either his Notion weakens, his Discernings |
Are Lethargied. Ha! Waking? 'Tis not so? |
Who is it that can tell me who I am? |
Foole. Lears shadow |
Lear. Your name, faire Gentlewoman? |
Gon. This admiration Sir, is much o'th' sauour |
Of other your new prankes. I do beseech you |
To vnderstand my purposes aright: |
As you are Old, and Reuerend, should be Wise. |
Heere do you keepe a hundred Knights and Squires, |
Men so disorder'd, so debosh'd and bold, |
That this our Court infected with their manners, |
Shewes like a riotous Inne; Epicurisme and Lust |
Makes it more like a Tauerne, or a Brothell, |
Then a grac'd Pallace. The shame it selfe doth speake |
For instant remedy. Be then desir'd |
By her, that else will take the thing she begges, |
A little to disquantity your Traine, |
And the remainders that shall still depend, |
To be such men as may besort your Age, |
Which know themselues, and you |
Lear. Darknesse, and Diuels. |
Saddle my horses: call my Traine together. |
Degenerate Bastard, Ile not trouble thee; |
Yet haue I left a daughter |
Gon. You strike my people, and your disorder'd rable, |
make Seruants of their Betters. |
Enter Albany. |
Lear. Woe, that too late repents: |
Is it your will, speake Sir? Prepare my Horses. |
Ingratitude! thou Marble-hearted Fiend, |
More hideous when thou shew'st thee in a Child, |
Then the Sea-monster |
Alb. Pray Sir be patient |
Lear. Detested Kite, thou lyest. |
My Traine are men of choice, and rarest parts, |
That all particulars of dutie know, |
And in the most exact regard, support |
The worships of their name. O most small fault, |
How vgly did'st thou in Cordelia shew? |
Which like an Engine, wrencht my frame of Nature |
From the fixt place: drew from my heart all loue, |
And added to the gall. O Lear, Lear, Lear! |
Beate at this gate that let thy Folly in, |
And thy deere Iudgement out. Go, go, my people |
Alb. My Lord, I am guiltlesse, as I am ignorant |
Of what hath moued you |
Lear. It may be so, my Lord. |
Heare Nature, heare deere Goddesse, heare: |