And the exchange my brother! In the mature time,
With this ungracious scroll, I'll strike the sight
Of the death-practis'd Duke. Give me your hand:

[Distant drum.

Far off, methinks, I hear the beaten drum:
Come, father, I'll bestow you with a friend. [Exeunt.

SCENE 4.-The French Camp.

Enter KENT and a Gentleman.

Kent.

HY the King of France is so suddenly gone back know you the reason?

Gent. Something he left imperfect in the state, which since his coming forth is thought of.

Kent. Did your letters pierce the queen to any demonstration of grief?

Gent. Ay, sir; she took them, read them in my

presence;

And now and then an ample tear trill'd down
Her delicate cheek; it seem'd she was a queen
Over her passion; who, most rebel like,

Sought to be king o'er her.

O, then it mov'd her.

Kent. Gent. Not to a rage: patience and sorrow strove Who should express her goodliest. You have seen Sunshine and rain at once: her smiles and tears Were like a better way: those happy smilets, That played on her ripe lip, seem'd not to know What guests were in her eyes. In brief, Sorrow would be a rarity most belov'd, If all could so become it.

Kent.

Made she no verbal question?

Gent. Faith, once or twice she heav'd the name of

"father"

Pantingly forth, as if it press'd her heart;

Cried." Sisters! sisters! What, i' the storm ? i' the night?

Let pity not be believ'd!" There she shook
The holy water from her heavenly eyes,

And clamour moisten'd: then away she started
To deal with grief alone.

You spoke not with her since?

Kent.

Gent. No.

Kent.

Was this before the king return'd?

Gent.

No, since.

Kent. Well, sir, the poor distress'd Lear's i' the

town;

Who sometime in his better tune remembers

What we are come about, and by no means

Will yield to see his daughter.

Gent.

Kent. His own unkindness,

Why, good sir ?

That stripp'd her from his benediction, stings
His mind so venomously, that burning shame
Detains him from Cordelia.

Gent.

Alack, poor gentleman!

Kent. Of Albany's and Cornwall's powers you

heard not?

Gent. 'Tis so, they are afoot.

Kent. Well, sir, I'll bring you to our master Lear, And leave you to attend him :

When I am known aright, you shall not grieve
Lending me this acquaintance. I pray you,
Go along with me.

[Exeunt.

E

SCENE 5.-A Tent in the French Camp.
LEAR on a bed asleep.

Soft music playing.

CORDELIA and KENT. Physician, Gentleman, and others watching.

Cordelia.

THOU good Kent, how shall I live and work,
To match thy goodness?

too short,

And every measure fail me.

My life will be

Kent. To be acknowledg'd, madam, is o'erpaid.

Cor. How does the king?

Phy. Madam, sleeps well.

Cor. O you kind gods,

Cure this great breach in his abusèd nature!
Th' untun'd and jarring senses, O, wind up
Of this child-changed father!

So please your majesty

Phy. That we may wake the king: he hath slept long. Cor. Be govern'd by your knowledge, and proceed I' th' sway of your own will. Is he array'd?

Phy. Ay, madam; in the heaviness of sleep We put fresh garments on him.

Kent. Be by, good madam, when we do awake him; I doubt not of his temperance.

Cor.

Very well.

Phy. Please you, draw near. Louder the music there!
Cor. O my dear father! Restoration hang

Thy medicine on my lips; and let this kiss
Repair those violent harms that my two sisters
Have in thy reverence made!

Kent.

Kind and dear princess !

Cor. Had you not been their father, these white

flakes

Had challeng'd pity of them. Was this a face
To be oppos'd against the warring winds?

Mine 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.
Phy. Madam, do you; 'tis fittest.

Cor. How does my royal lord? how fares your majesty ?

Lear. You do me wrong to take me out o' the

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!

Phy. He's scarce awake: let him alone awhile. Lear. Where have I been? Where am I?-Fair daylight ?—

I'm mightily abus'd.—I should e'en 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 assur'd
Of my condition!

Cor.

O, look upon me, sir,

And hold your hands in benediction o'er me:-
No, sir, you must not kneel.

Lear.

Pray do not mock me:

I am a very foolish, fond, old man,

Fourscore and upward, not an hour more or less;

And, to deal plainly,

I fear I am not in my perfect mind.

E 2

Methinks I should know you, and know this man ; Yet I am doubtful: for I'm mainly ignorant

What place this is: and all the skill I have Remembers not these garments; nor I know not Where I did lodge last night. Do not laugh at me; For, as I am a man, I think this lady

To be my child Cordelia.

Cor.

And so I am, I am.

Lear. Be your tears wet? yes, faith. I pray you

weep not:

If you have poison for me, I will drink it.

I know you do not love me; for your sisters
Have, as I do remember, done me wrong:
You have some cause, they have not.

Cor.

Lear. Am I in France?
Kent.

Lear. Do not abuse me.

No cause, no cause.

In your own kingdom, sir.

Phy. Be comforted, good madam: the great rage, You see, is cur'd in him: desire him to go in.

Cor.

Will't please your highness walk?

Lear. You must bear with me;

Pray you now, forget and forgive: I'm old and