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By her, that else will take the thing she begs,

A little to disquantity your train;

And the remainder, that shall still depend,

To be such men as may besort your age,

And know themselves and you.

Lear. Darkness and devils!

Saddle my horses; call my train together.—

Degenerate Bastard! I'll not trouble thee;

Yet have I left a daughter.

Gonerill. You strike my people, and your disorder'd rabble

Make servants of their betters.

Enter Albany

Lear. Woe, that too late repents—O, sir, are you come?

Is it your will? speak, sir.—Prepare my horses.—

[To Albany.]

Ingratitude! thou marble-hearted fiend,

More hideous, when thou show'st thee in a child,

Than the sea-monster!

Albany. Pray, sir, be patient.

Lear. Detested kite! thou liest. [To Gonerill.]

My train are men of choice and rarest parts,

That all particulars of duty know;

And in the most exact regard support

The worships of their name.—O most small fault,

How ugly didst thou in Cordelia show!

Which, like an engine, wrench'd my frame of nature

From the fixt place; drew from my heart all love,

And added to the gall. O Lear, Lear, Lear!

Beat at the gate, that let thy folly in,

[Striking his head.]

And thy dear judgement out!—Go, go, my people!

Albany. My lord, I am guiltless, as I am ignorant

Of what hath mov'd you.

Lear. It may be so, my lord—

Hear, nature, hear: dear goddess, hear!

Suspend thy purpose, if thou didst intend

To make this creature fruitful!

Into her womb convey sterility;

Dry up in her the organs of increase;

And from her derogate body never spring

A babe to honour her! If she must teem,

Create her child of spleen: that it may live,

To be a thwart disnatur'd torment to her!

Let it stamp wrinkles in her brow of youth;

With cadent tears fret channels in her cheeks;

Turn all her mother's pains, and benefits,

To laughter and contempt; that she may feel

How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is

To have a thankless child!—Away, away!

[Exit.]

Albany. Now, gods, that we adore, whereof comes this?

Gonerill. Never afflict yourself to know the cause;

But let his disposition have that scope

That dotage gives it.

Re-enter Lear

Lear. What, fifty of my followers at a clap!

Within a fortnight!

Albany. What's the matter, sir?

Lear. I'll tell thee; life and death! I am asham'd

That thou hast power to shake my manhood thus:

[To Gonerill.]

That these hot tears, which break from me perforce,

Should make thee worth them.—Blasts and fogs upon thee!

The untented woundings of a father's curse

Pierce every sense about thee!—Old fond eyes,

Beweep this cause again, I'll pluck you out;

And cast you, with the waters that you lose,

To temper clay.—Ha! is it come to this?

Let it be so:—Yet have I left a daughter,

Who, I am sure, is kind and comfortable;

When she shall hear this of thee, with her nails

She'll flay thy wolfish visage. Thou shalt find

That I'll resume the shape, which thou dost think

I have cast off forever.

[Exeunt Lear, Kent, and Attendants.]

This is certainly fine: no wonder that Lear says after it, 'O let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heavens,' feeling its effects by anticipation: but fine as is this burst of rage and indignation at the first blow aimed at his hopes and expectations, it is nothing near so fine as what follows from his double disappointment, and his lingering efforts to see which of them he shall lean upon for support and find comfort in, when both his daughters turn against his age and weakness. It is with some difficulty that Lear gets to speak with his daughter Regan, and her husband, at Gloucester's castle. In concert with Gonerill they have left their own home on purpose to avoid him. His apprehensions are fast alarmed by this circumstance, and when Gloucester, whose guests they are, urges the fiery temper of the Duke of Cornwall as an excuse for not importuning him a second time, Lear breaks out:

Vengeance! Plague! Death! Confusion!

Fiery? What fiery quality? Why, Gloucester,

I'd speak with the Duke of Cornwall and his wife.

Afterwards, feeling perhaps not well himself,