King Lear, Act 1, Scene 1

I thought the King had more affected the Duke of Albany than Cornwall.

I thought the King was fonder of the Duke of Albany than of Cornwall.

It did always seem so to us; but now, in the division of the kingdom, it appears not which of the Dukes he values most, for qualities are so weighed that curiosity in neither can make choice of either’s moiety.

It always seemed so to us; but now, in the dividing up of the kingdom, it isn't clear which of the Dukes he values most, for the shares are so evenly balanced that the most careful examination couldn't make one prefer either man's portion.

Is not this your son, my lord?

Isn't this your son, my lord?

His breeding, sir, hath been at my charge: I have so often blush’d to acknowledge him that now I am braz’d to’t.

His upbringing, sir, has been paid for by me. I have blushed so often to admit he's mine that now I've grown hardened to it.

I cannot conceive you.

I don't follow you.

Sir, this young fellow’s mother could; whereupon she grew round-wombed, and had indeed, sir, a son for her cradle ere she had a husband for her bed. Do you smell a fault?

Sir, this young fellow's mother could take me in; and so her belly swelled, and she had, sir, a son for her cradle before she had a husband for her bed. Do you catch a whiff of something wrong?

I cannot wish the fault undone, the issue of it being so proper.

I can't wish the wrong had never happened, since the result of it is so fine a young man.

But I have a son, sir, by order of law, some year elder than this, who yet is no dearer in my account: though this knave came something saucily to the world before he was sent for, yet was his mother fair; there was good sport at his making, and the whoreson must be acknowledged. Do you know this noble gentleman, Edmund?

But I do have a son, sir, born within the law, about a year older than this one, who is no dearer to me for that. Though this rogue came into the world a bit cheekily, before he was asked for, still his mother was beautiful; there was good fun in the making of him, and the bastard has to be acknowledged. Do you know this noble gentleman, Edmund?

No, my lord.

No, my lord.

My Lord of Kent: remember him hereafter as my honourable friend.

My Lord of Kent. Remember him from now on as my honourable friend.

My services to your lordship.

I am at your lordship's service.

I must love you, and sue to know you better.

I'm sure I shall like you, and I ask to know you better.

Sir, I shall study deserving.

Sir, I shall work at deserving it.

He hath been out nine years, and away he shall again. The King is coming.

He has been abroad nine years, and he shall go away again. The King is coming.

Attend the lords of France and Burgundy, Gloucester.

Go and wait on the lords of France and Burgundy, Gloucester.

I shall, my lord.

I will, my lord.

Meantime we shall express our darker purpose. Give me the map there. Know that we have divided In three our kingdom: and ’tis our fast intent To shake all cares and business from our age; Conferring them on younger strengths, while we Unburden’d crawl toward death. Our son of Cornwall, And you, our no less loving son of Albany, We have this hour a constant will to publish Our daughters’ several dowers, that future strife May be prevented now. The princes, France and Burgundy, Great rivals in our youngest daughter’s love, Long in our court have made their amorous sojourn, And here are to be answer’d. Tell me, my daughters,— Since now we will divest us both of rule, Interest of territory, cares of state,— Which of you shall we say doth love us most? That we our largest bounty may extend Where nature doth with merit challenge.—Goneril, Our eldest born, speak first.

In the meantime we shall reveal our hidden intention. Give me that map there. Know that we have divided our kingdom into three; and it is our firm purpose to shake all cares and business off our old age, handing them over to younger strength, while we, unburdened, crawl towards death. Our son of Cornwall, and you, our no less loving son of Albany, we have at this hour a settled will to make public our daughters' separate dowries, so that future quarrelling may be forestalled now. The princes, France and Burgundy, great rivals for our youngest daughter's love, have long made their courting visit here at our court, and are to be given their answer here. Tell me, my daughters — since we are now going to strip ourselves of rule, of the ownership of territory, of the cares of state — which of you shall we say loves us most? So that we may give our greatest generosity where natural affection goes together with deserving. Goneril, our first-born, speak first.

Sir, I love you more than word can wield the matter; Dearer than eyesight, space, and liberty; Beyond what can be valu’d, rich or rare; No less than life, with grace, health, beauty, honour; As much as child e’er lov’d, or father found; A love that makes breath poor and speech unable; Beyond all manner of so much I love you.

Sir, I love you more than words can manage to say; dearer than eyesight, than open space, than freedom; beyond anything that can be valued, however rich or rare; no less than life itself, with grace, health, beauty, honour; as much as any child ever loved or any father was ever loved; a love that makes breath poor and speech helpless. Beyond all measure of all such amounts, I love you.

[Aside.] What shall Cordelia speak? Love, and be silent.

[Aside.] What is Cordelia to say? Love, and say nothing.

Of all these bounds, even from this line to this, With shadowy forests and with champains rich’d, 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.

Of all these lands, from this line right across to this one, with their shady forests and their rich open fields, with their plentiful rivers and broad meadows, we make you the lady. Let this belong to your descendants and Albany's for ever. What does our second daughter say, our dearest Regan, wife of Cornwall? Speak.

Sir, I am made of the self mettle 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.

Sir, I am made of the same substance as my sister, and value myself as worth the same as her. In my honest heart I find that she has described exactly what I feel; only she falls short, in that I declare myself an enemy to every other pleasure that the most precious range of the senses can offer, and I find that I am happy in nothing but your dear highness's love.

[Aside.] Then poor Cordelia, And yet not so; since, I am sure, my love’s More ponderous than my tongue.

[Aside.] Then poor Cordelia — and yet not poor, since I'm sure my love weighs more than my tongue can carry.

To thee and thine hereditary ever Remain this ample third of our fair kingdom; No less in space, validity, and pleasure Than that conferr’d on Goneril.—Now, our joy, Although the last and least; to whose young love The vines of France and milk of Burgundy Strive to be interess’d; what can you say to draw A third more opulent than your sisters? Speak.

To you and yours by inheritance for ever let this large third of our fair kingdom remain; no smaller in size, in value, and in pleasantness than what was given to Goneril. Now, our joy, although the youngest and smallest: you for whose young love the vines of France and the milk of Burgundy compete to have a share — what can you say to win a third richer than your sisters'? Speak.

Nothing, my lord.

Nothing, my lord.

Nothing?

Nothing?

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing will come of nothing: speak again.

Nothing will come of nothing. Speak again.

Unhappy that I am, I cannot heave My heart into my mouth: I love your majesty According to my bond; no more nor less.

Unlucky as I am, I can't lift my heart up into my mouth. I love your majesty according to my duty as your child; no more and no less.

How, how, Cordelia? Mend your speech a little, Lest you may mar your fortunes.

What's this, Cordelia? Improve your words a little, or you may ruin your fortunes.

Good my lord, You have begot me, bred me, lov’d me: I Return those duties back as are right fit, Obey you, love you, and most honour 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.

My good lord, you have fathered me, brought me up, loved me. I give those duties back as is only right: I obey you, love you, and honour you above all. Why do my sisters have husbands, if they say they love only you? Perhaps, when I marry, the lord whose hand takes my marriage vow will carry off half my love with him, half my care and duty. I shall certainly never marry as my sisters have, and love my father only.

But goes thy heart with this?

But does your heart agree with this?

Ay, my good lord.

Yes, my good lord.

So young, and so untender?

So young, and so hard-hearted?

So young, my lord, and true.

So young, my lord, and truthful.

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 operation 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 for ever. The barbarous Scythian, Or he that makes his generation messes To gorge his appetite, shall to my bosom Be as well neighbour’d, pitied, and reliev’d, As thou my sometime daughter.

Let it be so then: let your truthfulness be your dowry. For by the holy light of the sun, by the secret rites of Hecate and of night, by all the influence of the planets, through which we come into existence and stop existing, I here disown all my fatherly care, all kinship and blood-claim on me, and from now on I hold you for ever a stranger to my heart and to me. The savage Scythian, or the man who makes meals of his own children to stuff his appetite, will be as welcome at my breast, as pitied and helped, as you, who used to be my daughter.

Good my liege,—

My good lord —

Peace, Kent! Come not between the dragon and his wrath. I lov’d her most, and thought to set my rest On her kind nursery. [To Cordelia.] Hence and avoid my sight! So be my grave my peace, as here I give Her father’s heart from her! Call France. Who stirs? Call Burgundy! Cornwall and Albany, 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 an hundred knights, By you to be sustain’d, shall our abode Make with you by due turn. Only we shall retain The name, and all the addition 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.]

Be quiet, Kent! Don't come between the dragon and his fury. I loved her most, and meant to spend my old age resting in her tender care. [To Cordelia.] Get out, and get out of my sight! Let my grave be my only peace, since I here take her father's heart away from her! Call in France. Who's moving? Call Burgundy! Cornwall and Albany, add this third to my two daughters' dowries. Let pride, which she calls plain speaking, get her a husband. I invest the two of you jointly with my power, my supremacy, and all the great trappings that go along with royalty. We ourself, month by month, keeping a hundred knights for ourself, to be maintained by you, shall live with you in turn. We shall keep nothing but the title and all the honours belonging to a king; the rule, the revenue, and the carrying out of everything else are yours, beloved sons; and to confirm it, divide this crown between you. [He gives them the crown.]

Royal Lear, Whom I have ever honour’d as my king, Lov’d as my father, as my master follow’d, As my great patron thought on in my prayers.—

Royal Lear, whom I have always honoured as my king, loved as my father, followed as my master, remembered in my prayers as my great protector —

The bow is bent and drawn; make from the shaft.

The bow is bent and pulled back; get out of the arrow's way.

Let it fall rather, though the fork invade The region of my heart: be Kent unmannerly When Lear is mad. What wouldst thou do, old man? Think’st thou that duty shall have dread to speak, When power to flattery bows? To plainness honour’s bound When majesty falls to folly. Reverse thy state; And in thy best consideration check This hideous rashness: answer my life my judgement, Thy youngest daughter does not love thee least; Nor are those empty-hearted, whose low sounds Reverb no hollowness.

Let it fly instead, even if the barb pierces the region of my heart. Let Kent be rude while Lear is mad. What do you think you are doing, old man? Do you think duty will be afraid to speak when power bows down to flattery? Honour is obliged to speak plainly when a king sinks into folly. Keep your royal position; and with your best judgement stop this monstrous rashness. I stake my life on my opinion: your youngest daughter does not love you least, and those people are not empty-hearted whose quiet voices give back no hollow echo.

Kent, on thy life, no more.

Kent, on your life, not another word.

My life I never held but as a pawn To wage against thine enemies; ne’er fear to lose it, Thy safety being the motive.

I never valued my life as anything but a stake to bet against your enemies. I'm not afraid to lose it when your safety is the reason.

Out of my sight!

Get out of my sight!

See better, Lear; and let me still remain The true blank of thine eye.

See more clearly, Lear, and let me always stay here as the true centre of your aim.

Now, by Apollo,—

Now, by Apollo —

Now by Apollo, King, Thou swear’st thy gods in vain.

Now by Apollo, King, you are swearing by your gods for nothing.

O vassal! Miscreant!

You slave! You villain!

Dear sir, forbear!

Dear sir, stop!

Kill thy physician, and the fee bestow Upon the foul disease. Revoke thy gift, Or, whilst I can vent clamour from my throat, I’ll tell thee thou dost evil.

Kill your doctor, and give the fee to the filthy disease. Take back your gift, or, as long as I can shout from my throat, I'll keep telling you that you are doing wrong.

Hear me, recreant! on thine allegiance, hear me! Since thou hast sought to make us break our vows, Which we durst never yet, and with strain’d pride To come betwixt our sentences and our power, Which nor our nature, nor our place can bear, Our potency made good, take thy reward. Five days we do allot thee for provision, To shield thee from disasters of the world; And on the sixth to turn thy hated back Upon our kingdom: if, on the next day following, Thy banish’d trunk be found in our dominions, The moment is thy death. Away! By Jupiter, This shall not be revok’d.

Listen to me, traitor! By the loyalty you owe me, listen to me! Since you have tried to make us break our vows, which we have never yet dared to do, and with overbearing pride to come between our judgement and our power, which neither our nature nor our position can put up with, then — our authority being upheld — take your punishment. We allow you five days to provide yourself with supplies to protect you from the world's troubles, and on the sixth to turn your hated back on our kingdom. If, on the next day after that, your banished body is found anywhere in our territories, that moment is your death. Go! By Jupiter, this will not be taken back.

Fare thee well, King: sith thus thou wilt appear, Freedom lives hence, and banishment is here. [To Cordelia.] The gods to their dear shelter take thee, maid, That justly think’st and hast most rightly said! [To Goneril and Regan.] And your large speeches may your deeds approve, That good effects may spring from words of love. Thus Kent, O princes, bids you all adieu; He’ll shape his old course in a country new.

Goodbye then, King. Since this is how you choose to show yourself, freedom lives elsewhere and exile is here. [To Cordelia.] May the gods take you into their loving shelter, girl, you who think rightly and have spoken most rightly! [To Goneril and Regan.] And may your deeds bear out your grand speeches, so that good results may grow from words of love. So Kent, my lords and ladies, says goodbye to you all; he'll live his old life in a new country.

Here’s France and Burgundy, my noble lord.

Here are France and Burgundy, my noble lord.

My Lord of Burgundy, We first address toward you, who with this king Hath rivall’d for our daughter: what in the least Will you require in present dower with her, Or cease your quest of love?

My Lord of Burgundy, we speak to you first, since you have competed with this king for our daughter. What is the smallest dowry you will demand with her here and now, or else give up your courtship?

Most royal majesty, I crave no more than hath your highness offer’d, Nor will you tender less.

Most royal majesty, I ask for no more than your highness has already offered, and you won't offer less.

Right noble Burgundy, When she was dear to us, we did hold her so; But now her price is fall’n. Sir, there she stands: If aught within that little-seeming substance, Or all of it, with our displeasure piec’d, And nothing more, may fitly like your grace, She’s there, and she is yours.

Truly noble Burgundy, when she was dear to us we valued her at that; but now her price has dropped. Sir, there she stands. If anything in that slight-seeming creature, or all of her, with our displeasure added on and nothing more, can suit your grace, she is there, and she is yours.

I know no answer.

I don't know what to say.

Will you, with those infirmities she owes, Unfriended, new adopted to our hate, Dower’d with our curse, and stranger’d with our oath, Take her or leave her?

With those faults she owns, friendless, newly taken into our hatred, given our curse as her dowry, and made a stranger by our oath — will you take her or leave her?

Pardon me, royal sir; Election makes not up in such conditions.

Forgive me, royal sir; no one makes a choice on such terms.

Then leave her, sir; for, by the power that made me, I tell you all her wealth. [To France] For you, great king, I would not from your love make such a stray To match you where I hate; therefore beseech you T’avert your liking a more worthier way Than on a wretch whom nature is asham’d Almost t’acknowledge hers.

Then leave her, sir; for, by the power that made me, I have told you everything she's worth. [To France] As for you, great king, I would not stray so far from friendship with you as to marry you to someone I hate; so I beg you to turn your affection to a worthier direction than to a wretched creature whom nature is almost ashamed to admit is hers.

This is most strange, That she, who even but now was your best object, The argument of your praise, balm of your age, The best, the dearest, should in this trice of time Commit a thing so monstrous, to dismantle So many folds of favour. Sure her offence Must be of such unnatural degree That monsters it, or your fore-vouch’d affection Fall into taint; which to believe of her Must be a faith that reason without miracle Should never plant in me.

This is very strange — that she, who only a moment ago was your favourite, the subject of your praise, the comfort of your old age, the best, the dearest, should in this instant of time do something so monstrous as to strip away so many layers of your favour. Surely her offence must be so unnatural in degree as to make a monster of her; or else the love you declared for her before must be in doubt. To believe that of her would take a faith that reason could never plant in me without a miracle.

I yet beseech your majesty, If for I want that glib and oily art To speak and purpose not; since what I well intend, I’ll do’t before I speak,—that you make known It is no vicious blot, murder, or foulness, No unchaste action or dishonour’d step, That hath depriv’d me of your grace and favour; But even for want of that for which I am richer, A still soliciting eye, and such a tongue As I am glad I have not, though not to have it Hath lost me in your liking.

I still beg your majesty—if it is because I lack that smooth and oily skill of speaking with no intention behind it, since whatever I truly mean to do I will do before I say it—that you make it known that it is no wicked stain, no murder or vileness, no unchaste act or dishonourable step, that has robbed me of your grace and favour; but exactly the lack of that very thing which makes me richer: a constantly begging eye, and the kind of tongue that I am glad I do not have, even though not having it has cost me your good opinion.

Better thou hadst Not been born than not to have pleas’d me better.

It would have been better for you never to have been born than to have pleased me so poorly.

Is it but this?—a tardiness in nature Which often leaves the history unspoke That it intends to do? My lord of Burgundy, What say you to the lady? Love’s not love When it is mingled with regards that stands Aloof from the entire point. Will you have her? She is herself a dowry.

Is that all it is? A slowness in her nature that often leaves unspoken the account of what it means to do? My lord of Burgundy, what do you say to the lady? Love is not love when it is mixed with considerations that have nothing to do with the essential thing. Will you have her? She is a dowry in herself.

Royal King, Give but that portion which yourself propos’d, And here I take Cordelia by the hand, Duchess of Burgundy.

Royal King, give only the share that you yourself proposed, and here and now I take Cordelia by the hand as Duchess of Burgundy.

Nothing: I have sworn; I am firm.

Nothing. I have sworn it; I will not move.

I am sorry, then, you have so lost a father That you must lose a husband.

Then I am sorry that in losing a father this way you must also lose a husband.

Peace be with Burgundy! Since that respects of fortunes are his love, I shall not be his wife.

Peace be with Burgundy! Since considerations of wealth are what he loves, I will not be his wife.

Fairest Cordelia, that art most rich, being poor; Most choice forsaken; and most lov’d, despis’d! Thee and thy virtues here I seize upon: Be it lawful, I take up what’s cast away. Gods, gods! ’Tis strange that from their cold’st neglect My love should kindle to inflam’d respect. Thy dowerless daughter, King, thrown to my chance, Is queen of us, of ours, and our fair France: Not all the dukes of waterish Burgundy Can buy this unpriz’d precious maid of me. Bid them farewell, Cordelia, though unkind: Thou losest here, a better where to find.

Loveliest Cordelia, richest in being poor, most desirable in being abandoned, most loved in being scorned! You and your virtues I claim here and now. Let it be lawful for me to pick up what has been thrown away. Gods, gods! It is strange that from their coldest neglect my love should catch fire into burning devotion. Your daughter without a dowry, King, thrown into my lot, is queen of me, of my possessions and of my fair France. Not all the dukes of watery Burgundy can buy this priceless girl from me, unvalued as she is. Say goodbye to them, Cordelia, unkind as they are: you lose one place, and will find a better one.

Thou hast her, France: let her be thine; for we Have no such daughter, nor shall ever see That face of hers again. Therefore be gone Without our grace, our love, our benison. Come, noble Burgundy.

You have her, France: let her be yours; for we have no such daughter, and we will never look on that face of hers again. So go, without our grace, our love, our blessing. Come, noble Burgundy.

Bid farewell to your sisters.

Say goodbye to your sisters.

The jewels of our father, with wash’d eyes Cordelia leaves you: I know you what you are; And like a sister am most loath to call Your faults as they are nam’d. Love well our father: To your professed bosoms I commit him: But yet, alas, stood I within his grace, I would prefer him to a better place. So farewell to you both.

You jewels of our father, Cordelia leaves you with tear-washed eyes. I know what you are; and being your sister, I am very unwilling to name your faults for what they are called. Love our father well. I trust him to the loving hearts you have declared. But still, sadly, if I stood inside his favour, I would place him somewhere better. So goodbye to you both.

Prescribe not us our duties.

Do not tell us what our duties are.

Let your study Be to content your lord, who hath receiv’d you At fortune’s alms. You have obedience scanted, And well are worth the want that you have wanted.

Make it your business to please your husband, who has taken you as fortune's charity. You have been sparing of obedience, and you fully deserve to lack what you have gone without.

Time shall unfold what plighted cunning hides: Who covers faults, at last shame derides. Well may you prosper.

Time will unfold what folded cunning keeps hidden. Those who cover up their faults are mocked by shame in the end. I wish you well.

Come, my fair Cordelia.

Come, my lovely Cordelia.

Sister, it is not little I have to say of what most nearly appertains to us both. I think our father will hence tonight.

Sister, I have plenty to say about matters that concern us both very closely. I think our father will leave here tonight.

That’s most certain, and with you; next month with us.

That is quite certain, and with you; next month with us.

You see how full of changes his age is; the observation we have made of it hath not been little: he always loved our sister most; and with what poor judgement he hath now cast her off appears too grossly.

You see how full of changes his old age is; we have observed a good deal of it. He always loved our sister most, and how poor his judgement was in casting her off now is all too obvious.

’Tis the infirmity of his age: yet he hath ever but slenderly known himself.

It is the weakness of his age; and yet he has always known himself only very slightly.

The best and soundest of his time hath been but rash; then must we look from his age to receive not alone the imperfections of long-engrafted condition, but therewithal the unruly waywardness that infirm and choleric years bring with them.

The best and healthiest part of his life was still reckless; so from his old age we must expect to get not only the faults of a character long rooted in him, but along with them the uncontrollable stubbornness that feeble, bad-tempered years bring with them.

Such unconstant starts are we like to have from him as this of Kent’s banishment.

We are likely to get such unpredictable outbursts from him as this banishing of Kent.

There is further compliment of leave-taking between France and him. Pray you let us hit together: if our father carry authority with such disposition as he bears, this last surrender of his will but offend us.

There is more ceremony of farewell to come between France and him. Please, let us act together: if our father keeps his authority with the temper he now shows, this handing over of his power will do nothing but harm us.

We shall further think of it.

We will think about it further.

We must do something, and i’ th’ heat.

We must do something, and while the iron is hot.