King Lear, Act 2, Scene 2

Good dawning to thee, friend: art of this house?

Good morning to you, friend. Do you belong to this house?

Ay.

Yes.

Where may we set our horses?

Where can we put our horses?

I’ the mire.

In the mud.

Prythee, if thou lov’st me, tell me.

Please, if you have any liking for me, tell me.

I love thee not.

I have no liking for you.

Why then, I care not for thee.

Well then, I don't care about you either.

If I had thee in Lipsbury pinfold, I would make thee care for me.

If I had you in a pen at Lipsbury, I'd make you care about me.

Why dost thou use me thus? I know thee not.

Why do you treat me like this? I don't know you.

Fellow, I know thee.

Fellow, I know you.

What dost thou know me for?

What do you know me as?

A knave; a rascal; an eater of broken meats; a base, proud, shallow, beggarly, three-suited, hundred-pound, filthy, worsted-stocking knave; a lily-livered, action-taking, whoreson, glass-gazing, super-serviceable, finical rogue; one trunk-inheriting slave; one that wouldst be a bawd in way of good service, and art nothing but the composition of a knave, beggar, coward, pander, and the son and heir of a mongrel bitch: one whom I will beat into clamorous whining, if thou deniest the least syllable of thy addition.

A crook; a scoundrel; an eater of other people's leftovers; a low, proud, shallow, beggarly knave with three suits to his name and a hundred pounds a year, filthy, in cheap wool stockings; a coward with a white liver, who runs to the law instead of fighting, a bastard who is always admiring himself in the mirror, over-eager to serve, a fussy rogue; a slave whose whole inheritance is one trunk of clothes; one who would gladly be a pimp if that counted as good service, and who is nothing but a mixture of crook, beggar, coward and go-between, and the son and heir of a mongrel bitch: one whom I'll beat until he howls and whines, if you deny a single syllable of these titles of yours.

Why, what a monstrous fellow art thou, thus to rail on one that’s neither known of thee nor knows thee?

What a monstrous man you are, to abuse someone like this who neither knows you nor is known by you.

What a brazen-faced varlet art thou, to deny thou knowest me! Is it two days ago since I tripped up thy heels and beat thee before the King? Draw, you rogue: for, though it be night, yet the moon shines; I’ll make a sop o’ the moonshine of you: draw, you whoreson cullionly barber-monger, draw!

What a shameless rascal you are, to deny you know me! Is it only two days ago that I tripped you up and beat you in front of the King? Draw your sword, you rogue: for though it's night, the moon is shining; I'll make a bread-sop of you soaked in moonlight. Draw, you filthy, contemptible barber's darling, draw!

Away! I have nothing to do with thee.

Get away! I have nothing to do with you.

Draw, you rascal: you come with letters against the King; and take vanity the puppet’s part against the royalty of her father: draw, you rogue, or I’ll so carbonado your shanks:—draw, you rascal; come your ways!

Draw, you scoundrel: you come carrying letters against the King, and you take the side of that vain puppet of a woman against the royal dignity of her father. Draw, you rogue, or I'll slash your legs like meat for grilling — draw, you scoundrel; come on!

Help, ho! murder! help!

Help, there! Murder! Help!

Strike, you slave; stand, rogue, stand; you neat slave, strike!

Strike, you slave; stand your ground, rogue, stand; you pretty slave, strike!

Help, ho! murder! murder!

Help, there! Murder! Murder!

How now! What’s the matter? Part!

What's going on! What's the matter? Separate them!

With you, goodman boy, if you please: come, I’ll flesh ye; come on, young master.

I'll take you on, my young sir, if you like. Come on, I'll give you your first taste of blood; come on, young master.

Weapons! arms! What’s the matter here?

Weapons! Fighting! What's the matter here?

Keep peace, upon your lives, he dies that strikes again. What is the matter?

Stop this, on your lives; the next man to strike a blow dies. What's the matter?

The messengers from our sister and the King.

They're the messengers from our sister and from the King.

What is your difference? Speak.

What's your quarrel? Speak.

I am scarce in breath, my lord.

I can hardly breathe, my lord.

No marvel, you have so bestirr’d your valour. You cowardly rascal, nature disclaims in thee; a tailor made thee.

No wonder, you've worked your courage so hard. You cowardly scoundrel, nature refuses to own you; a tailor made you.

Thou art a strange fellow: a tailor make a man?

You're a strange fellow. A tailor make a man?

Ay, a tailor, sir: a stonecutter or a painter could not have made him so ill, though he had been but two years at the trade.

Yes, a tailor, sir: a stonecutter or a painter couldn't have made him so badly, even if he'd only been two years at the trade.

Speak yet, how grew your quarrel?

Speak, then: how did your quarrel start?

This ancient ruffian, sir, whose life I have spared at suit of his grey beard,—

This old thug, sir, whose life I spared out of respect for his grey beard —

Thou whoreson zed! thou unnecessary letter! My lord, if you’ll give me leave, I will tread this unbolted villain into mortar and daub the walls of a jakes with him. Spare my grey beard, you wagtail?

You bastard letter Z! You useless letter! My lord, if you'll let me, I'll trample this unsifted villain into mortar and plaster the walls of a toilet with him. You spared my grey beard, you tail-wagging little bird?

Peace, sirrah! You beastly knave, know you no reverence?

Be quiet, you! You brutish crook, do you have no respect for anyone?

Yes, sir; but anger hath a privilege.

Yes, sir; but anger is allowed its liberties.

Why art thou angry?

Why are you angry?

That such a slave as this should wear a sword, Who wears no honesty. Such smiling rogues as these, Like rats, oft bite the holy cords a-twain Which are too intrince t’unloose; smooth every passion That in the natures of their lords rebel; Bring oil to fire, snow to their colder moods; Renege, affirm, and turn their halcyon beaks With every gale and vary of their masters, Knowing naught, like dogs, but following. A plague upon your epileptic visage! Smile you my speeches, as I were a fool? Goose, if I had you upon Sarum plain, I’d drive ye cackling home to Camelot.

Because a slave like this wears a sword and wears no honesty. Smiling rogues like these, like rats, often gnaw through the sacred bonds that are too tangled to untie; they flatter every passion that rises up in their masters' natures; they bring oil to their fire, snow to their colder moods; they deny, they agree, they turn their kingfisher beaks with every wind and shift of their masters, knowing nothing, like dogs, but how to follow. A plague on your twitching face! Do you smile at what I say, as if I were a fool? You goose, if I had you on Salisbury plain, I'd drive you cackling home to Camelot.

What, art thou mad, old fellow?

What, are you mad, old man?

How fell you out? Say that.

How did you come to quarrel? Tell us that.

No contraries hold more antipathy Than I and such a knave.

No two opposites are more hostile to each other than I am to a crook like this.

Why dost thou call him knave? What is his fault?

Why do you call him a crook? What has he done wrong?

His countenance likes me not.

I don't like his face.

No more perchance does mine, or his, or hers.

Maybe you don't like mine either, or his, or hers.

Sir, ’tis my occupation to be plain: I have seen better faces in my time Than stands on any shoulder that I see Before me at this instant.

Sir, it's my trade to be blunt: I have seen better faces in my life than any that stand on the shoulders of the people I see in front of me at this moment.

This is some fellow Who, having been prais’d for bluntness, doth affect A saucy roughness, and constrains the garb Quite from his nature: he cannot flatter, he, An honest mind and plain, he must speak truth! An they will take it, so; if not, he’s plain. These kind of knaves I know which in this plainness Harbour more craft and more corrupter ends Than twenty silly-ducking observants That stretch their duties nicely.

This is one of those men who, having once been praised for bluntness, puts on an insolent roughness and forces his manner right against his real nature. He can't flatter, not he — an honest, plain mind, he has to speak the truth! If people will accept it, fine; if not, he's being plain. I know this sort of crook: in this plainness they shelter more cunning and more corrupt aims than twenty cringing courtiers who carry out their duties with fastidious care.

Sir, in good faith, in sincere verity, Under th’allowance of your great aspect, Whose influence, like the wreath of radiant fire On flickering Phoebus’ front,—

Sir, in all good faith, in sincere truth, with the permission of your great presence, whose influence, like the ring of shining fire on flickering Phoebus' forehead —

What mean’st by this?

What do you mean by this?

To go out of my dialect, which you discommend so much. I know, sir, I am no flatterer: he that beguiled you in a plain accent was a plain knave; which, for my part, I will not be, though I should win your displeasure to entreat me to’t.

To abandon my usual way of speaking, which you object to so much. I know, sir, that I'm no flatterer: the man who deceived you with a plain manner of speech was a plain crook; which I, for my part, will not be, even if by displeasing you I got you to beg me to be one.

What was the offence you gave him?

What was the offence you gave him?

I never gave him any: It pleas’d the King his master very late To strike at me, upon his misconstruction; When he, compact, and flattering his displeasure, Tripp’d me behind; being down, insulted, rail’d And put upon him such a deal of man, That worthied him, got praises of the King For him attempting who was self-subdu’d; And, in the fleshment of this dread exploit, Drew on me here again.

I never gave him any. It suited the King, his master, only recently to strike at me, because he had misunderstood me; and then this man, in league with him and flattering his anger, tripped me from behind. When I was down, he abused me, cursed me, and put on such a great show of manliness that it made him a hero and won him the King's praise for attacking a man who had already given in; and, thrilled with the success of this terrible feat, he drew on me again here.

None of these rogues and cowards But Ajax is their fool.

There isn't one of these rogues and cowards who doesn't make Ajax look like his fool.

Fetch forth the stocks! You stubborn ancient knave, you reverent braggart, We’ll teach you.

Bring out the stocks! You obstinate old crook, you white-haired boaster, we'll teach you.

Sir, I am too old to learn: Call not your stocks for me: I serve the King; On whose employment I was sent to you: You shall do small respect, show too bold malice Against the grace and person of my master, Stocking his messenger.

Sir, I'm too old to learn. Don't send for your stocks for me: I serve the King, and it was on his business that I was sent to you. You'll be showing very little respect, and far too bold a spite, against the dignity and the person of my master, if you put his messenger in the stocks.

Fetch forth the stocks! As I have life and honour, there shall he sit till noon.

Bring out the stocks! By my life and honour, he'll sit there till noon.

Till noon! Till night, my lord; and all night too!

Till noon! Till night, my lord — and all night too!

Why, madam, if I were your father’s dog, You should not use me so.

Why, madam, if I were your father's dog, you shouldn't treat me like this.

Sir, being his knave, I will.

Sir, since you're his crook, I will.

This is a fellow of the selfsame colour Our sister speaks of. Come, bring away the stocks!

This is a man of exactly the same type our sister writes about. Come, bring the stocks over here!

Let me beseech your grace not to do so: His fault is much, and the good King his master Will check him for’t: your purpos’d low correction Is such as basest and contemned’st wretches For pilferings and most common trespasses, Are punish’d with. The King must take it ill That he, so slightly valued in his messenger, Should have him thus restrained.

Let me beg your grace not to do this. His offence is great, and the good King, his master, will punish him for it. The lowly punishment you intend is the kind used on the most contemptible and despised wretches for petty thefts and the most ordinary offences. The King is bound to take it badly that he should be valued so little in the person of his messenger as to have him confined like this.

I’ll answer that.

I'll answer for that.

My sister may receive it much more worse, To have her gentleman abus’d, assaulted, For following her affairs. Put in his legs.

My sister may take it much worse, to have her gentleman insulted and attacked for carrying out her business. Put his legs in.

Come, my good lord, away.

Come, my good lord, let's go.

I am sorry for thee, friend; ’tis the Duke’s pleasure, Whose disposition, all the world well knows, Will not be rubb’d nor stopp’d; I’ll entreat for thee.

I'm sorry for you, friend; it's the Duke's will, and everyone knows his temper won't be checked or held back. I'll plead for you.

Pray do not, sir: I have watch’d, and travell’d hard; Some time I shall sleep out, the rest I’ll whistle. A good man’s fortune may grow out at heels: Give you good morrow!

Please don't, sir. I've gone without sleep and travelled hard. Part of the time I'll sleep away, and the rest I'll whistle through. A good man's luck can wear out at the heels. I wish you a good morning.

The Duke’s to blame in this: ’twill be ill taken.

The Duke is at fault in this; it will be badly received.

Good King, that must approve the common saw, Thou out of heaven’s benediction com’st To the warm sun. Approach, thou beacon to this under globe, That by thy comfortable beams I may Peruse this letter. Nothing almost sees miracles But misery. I know ’tis from Cordelia, Who hath most fortunately been inform’d Of my obscured course. And shall find time From this enormous state, seeking to give Losses their remedies. All weary and o’erwatch’d, Take vantage, heavy eyes, not to behold This shameful lodging. Fortune, good night: smile once more, turn thy wheel!

Good King, you must be the proof of the old proverb: you come out of heaven's blessing into the burning sun. Come up, you torch of this lower world, so that by your comforting light I can read this letter through. Almost no one sees miracles except the wretched. I know it's from Cordelia, who by great good luck has been told about the disguised path I'm following. And she will find time, away from this monstrous condition of things, and look to set our losses right. Worn out and short of sleep, take your chance, heavy eyes, and don't look at this disgraceful lodging. Good night, Fortune: smile once more, turn your wheel!