Page 31
p. 31
The
Tragedy
of
King
Lear.
Enter
Gloster
led
by
an
old
man.
But
who
comes
here?
My
Father
poorly
led?
World,
World,
O
World!
But
that
thy
strange
mutations
make
us
hate
thee,
Life
would
not
yield
to
age.
Old
Man.
O
my
good
Lord,
I
have
been
your
Tenant,
And
your
Fathers
Tenant,
these
fourscore
years.
Glo.
Away,
get
thee
away:
good
Friend
be
gone,
Thy
comforts
can
do
me
no
good
at
all,
Thee
they
may
hurt.
Old
Man.
You
cannot
see
your
way.
Glo.
I
have
no
way,
and
therefore
want
no
Eyes:
I
stumbled
when
I
saw.
Full
oft
’tis
seen,
Our
means
secure
us,
and
our
meer
defects
Prove
our
Commodities.
Oh
dear
Son
Edgar,
The
food
of
thy
abused
Fathers
wrath:
Might
I
but
live
to
see
thee
in
my
touch,
Il’d
say
l
had
Eyes
again.
Old
Man.
How
now?
who’s
there?
Edg.
O
gods!
Who
is’t
can
say
I
am
at
the
worst?
I
am
worse
than
ere
I
was.
Old
Man.
’Tis
poor
mad
Tom.
Edg.
And
worse
I
may
be
yet:
the
worst
is
not,
So
long
as
we
can
say
this
is
the
worst.
Old
Man.
Fellow,
where
goest?
Glo.
Is
it
a
Beggar
man?
Old
Man.
Madman,
and
Beggar
too.
Glo.
He
has
some
reason,
else
he
could
not
beg.
I'
th’
last
nights
storm,
I
such
a
Fellow
saw;
Which
made
me
think
a
Man,
a
Worm.
My
Son
Came
then
into
my
mind,
and
yet
my
mind
Was
then
scarce
Friends
with
him.
I
have
heard
more
since:
As
Flies
to
th'
wanton
Boyes,
are
we
to
th’
gods,
They
kill
us
for
their
sport.
Edg.
How
should
this
be?
Bad
is
the
Trade
that
must
play
the
Fool
to
sorrow,
Ang’ring
it
self,
and
others.
Bless
the
Master.
Glo.
Is
that
the
naked
Fellow?
Old
Man.
I,
my
Lord.
Glo.
Get
thee
away:
if
for
my
sake
Thou
wilt
o’re-take
us
hence
a
mile
or
twain
I'
th’
way
toward
Dover,
do
it
for
ancient
love,
And
bring
some
covering
for
this
naked
Soul,
Which
I’ll
intreat
to
lead
me.
Old
Man.
Alack
Sir,
he
is
mad.
Glo.
’Tis
the
times
plague,
When
Madmen
lead
the
blind:
Do
as
I
bid
thee,
or
rather
do
thy
pleasure:
Above
the
rest,
be
gone.
Old
Man.
I’ll
bring
him
the
best
Parrel
that
I
have,
Come
on’t,
what
will.
[Exit.
Glo.
Sirrah,
naked
Fellow.
Edg.
Poor
Tom's
a
cold.
I
cannot
daub
it
further.
Glo.
Come
hither
Fellow.
Edg.
And
yet
I
must:
Bless
thy
sweet
Eyes,
they
bleed.
Glo.
Know’st
thou
the
way
to
Dover?
Edg.
Both
Stile,
and
Gate,
Horse
way,
and
foot
path:
poor
Tom
hath
been
scar’d
out
of
his
good
wits.
Bless
thee
good
mans
Son,
from
the
foul
Fiend.
(plagues
Glo.
Here
take
this
Purse,
thou
whom
the
Heav’ns
Have
humbled
to
all
strokes:
that
I
am
wretched
Makes
thee
the
happier:
Heavens
deal
so
still:
Let
the
superfluous,
and
Lust-dieted
man,
That
slaves
your
Ordinance,
that
will
not
see
Because
he
do’s
not
feel,
feel
your
power
quickly:
So
distribution
should
undo
excess,
And
each
man
have
enough.
Do
it
thou
know
Dover?
Edg.
I
Master.
Glo.
There
is
a
Cliff,
whose
high
and
bending
head
Looks
fearfully
in
the
confined
Deep:
Bring
me
but
to
the
very
brim
of
it,
And
I’ll
repair
the
misery
thou
do’st
bear
With
something
rich
about
me:
from
that
place,
I
shall
no
lending
need.
Edg.
Give
me
thy
arm;
Poor
Tom
shall
lead
thee.
[Exeunt.
Scena
Secunda.
Enter
Gonerill,
Bastard,
and
Steward.
Gon.
Welcome
my
Lord,
I
marvel
our
mild
Husband
Not
met
us
on
the
way.
Now,
where’s
your
Master?
Stew.
Madam
within,
but
never
man
so
chang’d:
I
told
him
of
the
Army
that
was
Landed:
He
smil’d
at
it.
I
told
him
you
were
coming,
His
answer
was
the
worse.
Of
Glosters
Treachery,
And
of
the
loyal
service
of
his
Son
When
I
inform’d
him,
then
he
call’d
me
Sot,
And
told
me
I
had
turn’d
the
wrong
side
out:
What
most
he
should
dislike,
seems
pleasant
to
him;
What
like,
offensive.
Gon.
Then
shall
you
go
no
further.
It
is
the
Cowish
terror
of
his
spirit
That
dares
not
undertake:
he’ll
not
feel
wrongs
Which
tye
him
to
an
answer;
our
wishes
on
the
way
May
prove
effects.
Back
Edmund
to
my
Brother,
Hasten
his
Musters,
and
conduct
his
powers.
I
must
change
names
at
home,
and
give
the
Distaff
Into
my
Husbands
hands.
This
trusty
Servant
Shall
pass
between
us:
ere
long
you
are
like
to
hear
(If
you
dare
venture
in
your
own
behalf)
A
Mistresses
command.
Wear
this;
spare
speech,
Decline
your
head.
This
kiss,
if
it
durst
speak,
Would
stretch
thy
Spirits
up
into
the
air:
Conceive,
and
fare
the
well.
Bast.
Yours
in
the
ranks
of
Death.
Gon.
My
most
dear
Gloster.
Oh,
the
difference
of
man,
and
man,
To
thee
a
Womans
services
are
due,
My
Fool
usurps
my
Body.
Stew.
Madam,
here
comes
my
Lord.
Enter
Albany.
Gon.
I
have
been
worth
the
whistle.
Alb.
Oh
Gonerill,
You
are
not
worth
the
dust
which
the
rude
wind
Blows
in
your
Face.
Gon,
Milk-liver’d
man,
That
bear’st
a
cheek
for
blows,
a
head
of
wrongs,
Who
hast
not
in
thy
brows
an
Eye-discerning
Thine
honour,
from
thy
suffering.
Alb.
See
thy
self
Devil:
Proper
deformity
seems
not
in
the
fiend
So
horrid
as
in
Woman.
Gon.
Oh
vain
Fool.
Enter
a
Messenger.
Mes.
Oh
my
good
Lord,
the
Duke
of
Cornwalls
dead,
Slain
by
his
Servant,
going
to
put
out
The
other
Eye
of
Gloster.
Alba.
Glosters
Eyes?
Mes.
A
Servant
that
he
bred,
thrill’d
with
remorse,
Oppos’d
against
the
act:
bending
his
Sword
To
his
great
Master,
who,
thereat
enrag’d
Flew
on
him,
and
amongst
them
fell’d
him
dead,
But
not
without
that
harmful
stroke,
which
since
Hath
pluck’d
him
after.
Alba.
This
shews
you
are
above
You
Justices,
that
these
our
nether
crimes
So
speedily
can
venge.
But
(O
poor
Gloster)
Lost
103