How now, daughter? What makes that frontlet on?
Methinks you are too much of late i’ th’ frown.
And my poor fool is hanged. No, no, no life?
Why should a dog,
Cordelia, to Lear
We are not the first
Who with best meaning have incurred the worst.
Where have I been? Where am I? Fair daylight?
I am mightily abused; I should e’en die with pity
To see another thus.
O ho, are you there with me? No eyes in your
head, nor no money in your purse?
The trick of that voice I do well remember.
Is ’t not the King?
Has his daughters brought him to this pass?—
Couldst thou save nothing?
Here is the place, my lord. Good my lord, enter.
The tyranny of the open night ’s too rough
For nature to endure.
My wits begin to turn.—
Come on, my boy. How dost, my boy? Art cold?
Alas, sir, are you here? Things that love night
Love not such nights as these.
Blow winds, and crack your cheeks! Rage, blow!
You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout
Till you have drenched our steeples,
Those wicked creatures yet do look well-favored
When others are more wicked. Not being the worst
Stands in some rank of praise.
I pray you, father, being weak, seem so.
If till the expiration of your month
You will return and sojourn with my sister,
My dear lord,
You know the fiery quality of the Duke,
How unremovable and fixed he is
In his own course.
If a man’s brains were in ’s heels, were ’t not in
danger of kibes?
This admiration, sir, is much o’ th’ savor
Of other your new pranks. I do beseech you
To understand my purposes aright.
Nuncle, give me
an egg, and I’ll give thee two crowns.
What two crowns shall they be?
Fool, to Kent
Prithee tell him, so much the rent of his
land comes to.
Sirrah, I’ll teach thee a speech.
How now, what art thou?
A man, sir.
What dost thou profess?
Fairest Cordelia, that art most rich being poor;
Most choice, forsaken; and most loved, despised,
This is most strange,
That she whom even but now was your best object,
The argument of your praise,
Whom I have ever honored as my king,
Loved as my father,
Now, our joy,
Although our last and least, to whose young love
The vines of France and milk of Burgundy
Strive to be interessed,
Meantime we shall express our darker purpose.—
Give me the map there. He is handed a map.
Know that we have divided
In three our kingdom,