Cor. What shall Cordelia do? Love and be silent. (Aside.)
Lear. Of all these bounds, even from this line to this,
With shadowy forests, and with champaigns riched,
With plenteous rivers, and wide-skirted meads,
We make thee lady to thine and Albany's issue
Be this perpetual. What says our second daughter,
Our dearest Regan, wife of Cornwall? Speak.

Reg. I am made of that self metal as my sister,
And prize me at her worth. In my true heart
I find, she names my very deed of love;
Only she comes too short; that I profess
Myself an enemy to all other joys,

Which the most precious square of sense possesses;
And find, I am alone felicitate

In

your dear highness' love.

Cor. Then poor Cordelia! (Aside.)

And yet not so: since, I am sure, my love's
More richer than my tongue.

Lear. To thee, and thine, hereditary ever,
Remain this ample third of our fair kingdom;
No less in space, validity, and pleasure,
Than that conferred on Goneril. Now our joy,
Although the last, not least; to whose young love
The vines of France, and milk of Burgundy,
Strive to be interested: what can you say, to draw
A third more opulent than your sisters? Speak.
Cor. Nothing, my lord.

Lear. Nothing?

Cor. Nothing.

Lear. Nothing can come of nothing; speak again.

Cor. Unhappy that I am, I cannot heave

My heart into my mouth; I love your majesty

According to my bond; nor more, nor less.

Lear. How, how, Cordelia? mend your speech a little

Lest it may mar your fortunes.

Cor. Good my lord,

You are my father, have bred me, loved me;

I return those duties back as are right fit,

Obey you, love you, and most honor you.

Why have my sisters husbands, if they say
They love you, all? Haply, when I shall wed,

That lord, whose hand must take my plight, shall carry

Half my love with him, half my care and duty;

Sure, I shall never marry like my sisters,

To love my father all.

Lear. But goes this with thy heart?
Cor. Ay, good my lord.

Lear. So young and so untender!

Cor. So young, my lord, and true.

Lear. Let it be so. Thy truth, then, be thy dower;
For, by the sacred radiance of the sun;
The mysteries of Hecate, and the night;
By all the operations of the orbs,

From whom we do exist, and cease to be;
Here I disclaim all my paternal care,
Propinquity and property of blood,

And as a stranger to my heart and me,

Hold thee, from this, forever. The barbarous Scythian,
Or he that makes his generation messes

To gorge his appetite, shall to my bosom
Be as well neighbored, pitied, and relieved,
As thou, my sometime daughter.

Kent. Good, my liege,—

Lear. Peace, Kent!

Come not between the dragon and his wrath,
I loved her most, and thought to set my rest
On her kind nursery. Hence, and avoid my sight!—

So be my grave my peace, as here I give

Her father's heart from her!

Cornwall, and Albany,

(To Cordelia.)

With my two daughters' dowers digest this third;
Let pride, which she calls plainness, marry her;
I do invest you jointly with my power,
Pre-eminence, and all the large effects

That troop with majesty. Ourself, by monthly course,
With reservation of a hundred knights,

By you to be sustained, shall our abode

Make with you by due turns. Only we still retain

The name, and all additions to a king;

The sway,

Revenue, execution of the rest,

Beloved sons, be yours'; which to confirm,

This coronet part between you. (Giving the crown.)

Kent. Royal Lear,

Whom I have ever honored as my king,

Loved as my father, as my master followed,

As my great patron thought on in my prayers,

Lear. The bow is bent and drawn, make from the shaft.

Kent. Let it fall rather, though the fork invade

The region of my heart; be Kent unmannerly

When Lear is mad. What would'st thou do, old man?
Think'st thou, that duty shall have dread to speak,

When power to flattery bows? To plainness honor's bound,
When majesty stoops to folly. Reverse thy doom:

And, in thy best consideration, check

This hideous rashness; answer my life, my judgment,
Thy youngest daughter does not love thee least,
Nor are those empty hearted, whose low sound

Reverbs no hollowness.

Lear. Kent, on thy life, no more.

SHAKSPEARE.

LESSON XXXII.

FILIAL INGRATITUDE.

SCENE. A heath.—A storm with thunder and lightning.
PRESENT. Kent, a Gentleman, and King Lear.

Enter Kent and a Gentleman, meeting.

Kent. WHO's here, besides foul weather?

Gent. One minded like the weather, most unquietly.
Kent. I know you. Where's the king?

Gent. Contending with the fretful elements,
Bids the wind blow the earth into the sea,

Or swell the curled waters 'bove the main,

That things might change, or cease; tears his white hair;
Which the impetuous blasts, with eyeless rage,

Catch in their fury, and make nothing of:

Strives in his little world of man, to out-scorn

The to-and-fro-conflicting wind and rain.

This night, wherein the cub-drawn bear would couch,

The lion, and the hunger-pinched wolf,

Keep their fur dry, unbonneted he roves,

And bids what will, take all.

Enter King Lear.

Lear. Blow, winds! and crack your cheeks! rage! blow!

You cataracts and hurricanes! spout

Till you have drenched our steeples.

You sulphurous and thought-executing fires,

Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunder-bolts,

Singe my white head! And thou, all-shaking thunder,

Strike flat the thick rotundity o' the world!

Crack nature's molds, all germins spill at once,

That make ungrateful man! spit,fire! spout, rain!
Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my daughters;
I tax not you, ye elements, with unkindness,
I never gave you kingdom, called you children:
You owe me no subscription: why, then let fall
Your horrible displeasure: here I stand, your slave;
A poor, infirm, weak, and despised old man:
But yet I call you servile ministers,
That have with two pernicious daughters joined
Your high engendered battles, 'gainst a head
So old and white as this. O! O! 'tis foul!
Let the great gods,

That keep this dreadful pother o'er our heads,
Find out their enemies now. Tremble, thou wretch,
That hast within thee undivulged crimes,
Unwhipped of justice: caitiff, to pieces shake,
That under covert and convenient seeming,
Hast practiced on man's life. Close pent-up guilt,
Rive your concealing continents, and cry

These dreadful summoners grace. I am a man

More sinned against, than sinning.

Kent. Gracious, my lord, hard by here is a hovel; Some friendship will it lend you 'gainst the tempest; Repose you here.

Lear. My wits begin to turn.

Kent. Here is the place, my lord; good, my lord, enter. The tyranny of the open night's too much

Lear. Thou think'st 'tis much, that this contentious storm

Invades us to the skin: so 'tis to thee:

But where the greater malady is fixed,

The less is scarcely felt. Thou'dst shun a bear;

But if thy flight lay toward the raging sea,

Thou'dst meet the bear i' the mouth. When the mind's free,

The body's delicate; the tempest in my mind

Doth from my senses take all feeling else,
Save what beats there. Filial ingratitude!
Is it not as this mouth should tear this hand
For lifting food to 't? But I will punish home.
No, I will weep no more. In such a night
To shut me out! Pour on; I will endure.

In such a night as this! O Regan! Goneril!
Your old kind father, whose frank heart gave all !
O, that way madness lies; let me shun that;
No more of that.

SHAKSPEARE.

LESSON XXXIII

FILIAL AFFECTION.

PRESENT. King Lear, Cordelia, and Physician.
Cor. O My dear father! Restoration hang
Her medicine on my lips, and let this kiss
Repair those violent harms, that my two sisters
Have in thy reverence made!

Had you not been their father, these white flakes
Did challenge pity of them.

Was this a face

To be exposed against the warring winds?

To stand against the deep, dread-bolted thunder?
In the most terrible and nimble stroke

Of quick, cross-lightning? My enemy's dog,
Though he had bit me, should have stood that night
Against my fire: and wast thou fain, poor father,
To hovel thee with swine, and rogues forlorn,

In short and musty straw? Alack, alack!
'Tis wonder, that thy life and wits, at once,

Had not concluded all.-He wakes; speak to him.
Phys. Madam, do you; 'tis fittest.

Cor. How does my royal lord? How fares your majesty?
Leur. You do me wrong to take me out o' th' grave;

Thou art a soul in bliss, but I am bound

Upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears

Do scald like molten lead.

Cor. Sir, do you know me?

Lear. You are a spirit, I know; when did you die?
Cor. Still, still far wide-

Phys.

He's scarce awake; let him alone awhile.

Lear. Where have I been? where am I? fair day light? I'm mightily abused; I should even die with pity

To see another thus. I know not what to say;
I will not swear, these are my hands: let's see-
I feel this pin prick: would I were assured
Of my condition.

Cor. Oh! look upon me, sir,

And hold your hand in benediction o'er me;
Nav, you must not kneel,