King Lear, Act 2, Scene 4

’Tis strange that they should so depart from home, And not send back my messenger.

It's strange that they should leave home like that and not send my messenger back.

As I learn’d, The night before there was no purpose in them Of this remove.

From what I heard, the night before they had no intention of making this move.

Hail to thee, noble master!

Greetings to you, noble master!

Ha! Mak’st thou this shame thy pastime?

Ha! Are you making this disgrace your entertainment?

No, my lord.

No, my lord.

Ha, ha! he wears cruel garters. Horses are tied by the heads; dogs and bears by the neck, monkeys by the loins, and men by the legs: when a man is overlusty at legs, then he wears wooden nether-stocks.

Ha, ha! He's wearing painful garters. Horses are tied by the head, dogs and bears by the neck, monkeys by the waist, and men by the legs. When a man is too lively with his legs, then he gets wooden stockings.

What’s he that hath so much thy place mistook To set thee here?

Who is it that has so mistaken your rank as to put you here?

It is both he and she, Your son and daughter.

It's both him and her — your son and your daughter.

No.

No.

Yes.

Yes.

No, I say.

No, I tell you.

I say, yea.

I tell you, yes.

No, no; they would not.

No, no; they wouldn't.

Yes, they have.

Yes, they have.

By Jupiter, I swear no.

By Jupiter, I swear they did not.

By Juno, I swear ay.

By Juno, I swear they did.

They durst not do’t. They could not, would not do’t; ’tis worse than murder, To do upon respect such violent outrage: Resolve me, with all modest haste, which way Thou mightst deserve or they impose this usage, Coming from us.

They wouldn't have dared do it. They couldn't, wouldn't do it. It's worse than murder to commit such a violent outrage against a man owed respect. Tell me, as quickly as you decently can, how you could have deserved, or they inflicted, this treatment, when you came from me.

My lord, when at their home I did commend your highness’ letters to them, Ere I was risen from the place that show’d My duty kneeling, came there a reeking post, Stew’d in his haste, half breathless, panting forth From Goneril his mistress salutations; Deliver’d letters, spite of intermission, Which presently they read; on those contents, They summon’d up their meiny, straight took horse; Commanded me to follow and attend The leisure of their answer; gave me cold looks: And meeting here the other messenger, Whose welcome I perceiv’d had poison’d mine, Being the very fellow which of late Display’d so saucily against your highness, Having more man than wit about me, drew; He rais’d the house with loud and coward cries. Your son and daughter found this trespass worth The shame which here it suffers.

My lord, when I delivered your highness's letters to them at their house, before I had risen from the kneeling that showed my duty, a sweating messenger arrived, soaked in his own haste, half out of breath, gasping out greetings from his mistress Goneril. He handed over letters, cutting in on me, which they read at once. On the strength of what was in them, they called up their household servants and immediately took to horse; they ordered me to follow and wait for them to answer when they pleased, and they gave me cold looks. And when I met the other messenger here — the one whose welcome I saw had spoiled mine, the very man who had lately behaved so insolently towards your highness — with more courage than sense in me, I drew my sword. He roused the whole house with loud, cowardly shouting. Your son and daughter judged this offence deserving of the shame it is suffering here.

Winter’s not gone yet, if the wild geese fly that way. Fathers that wear rags Do make their children blind, But fathers that bear bags Shall see their children kind. Fortune, that arrant whore, Ne’er turns the key to th’ poor. But for all this, thou shalt have as many dolours for thy daughters as thou canst tell in a year.

Winter isn't over yet, if the wild geese are flying in that direction. Fathers who wear rags make their children blind to them, but fathers who carry moneybags will find their children loving. Fortune, that out-and-out whore, never opens the door to the poor. But even so, you'll get as many griefs from your daughters as you can count in a year.

O, how this mother swells up toward my heart! Hysterica passio, down, thou climbing sorrow, Thy element’s below! Where is this daughter?

Oh, how this choking fit swells up towards my heart! Hysterica passio, get down, you climbing grief; your proper place is below! Where is this daughter of mine?

With the earl, sir, here within.

Inside here, sir, with the earl.

Follow me not; stay here.

Don't follow me; wait here.

Made you no more offence but what you speak of?

Did you commit no offence other than the one you've described?

None. How chance the King comes with so small a number?

None. How does it happen that the King arrives with such a small retinue?

An thou hadst been set i’ the stocks for that question, thou hadst well deserved it.

If you'd been put in the stocks for asking that question, you'd have thoroughly deserved it.

Why, fool?

Why, fool?

We’ll set thee to school to an ant, to teach thee there’s no labouring i’the winter. All that follow their noses are led by their eyes but blind men; and there’s not a nose among twenty but can smell him that’s stinking. Let go thy hold when a great wheel runs down a hill, lest it break thy neck with following it; but the great one that goes upward, let him draw thee after. When a wise man gives thee better counsel, give me mine again: I would have none but knaves follow it, since a fool gives it. That sir which serves and seeks for gain, And follows but for form, Will pack when it begins to rain, And leave thee in the storm. But I will tarry; the fool will stay, And let the wise man fly: The knave turns fool that runs away; The fool no knave perdy.

We'll send you to be taught by an ant, to show you there's no working in winter. Everyone who follows his nose is guided by his eyes, except blind men; and there isn't one nose in twenty that can't smell a man who stinks. Let go of your grip when a great wheel is rolling down a hill, in case it breaks your neck as you follow it; but the great one that's going uphill — let that one pull you along after it. When a wise man gives you better advice than this, give me mine back. I'd like nobody but scoundrels to follow it, since it's a fool who gives it. That gentleman who serves and looks for profit, and follows you only for appearance's sake, will pack up when it starts to rain and leave you in the storm. But I'll stay; the fool will remain, and let the wise man run off. The scoundrel who runs away turns out a fool; the fool is certainly no scoundrel.

Where learn’d you this, fool?

Where did you learn this, fool?

Not i’ the stocks, fool.

Not in the stocks, fool.

Deny to speak with me? They are sick? they are weary? They have travell’d all the night? Mere fetches; The images of revolt and flying off. Fetch me a better answer.

They refuse to speak with me? They're ill? They're tired? They've travelled all night? Nothing but excuses — the signs of rebellion and desertion. Bring me a better answer than that.

My dear lord, You know the fiery quality of the Duke; How unremovable and fix’d he is In his own course.

My dear lord, you know the Duke's fiery temperament — how immovable and fixed he is once he's set on his own course.

Vengeance! plague! death! confusion! Fiery? What quality? Why, Gloucester, Gloucester, I’d speak with the Duke of Cornwall and his wife.

Vengeance! Plague! Death! Ruin! Fiery? What temperament? Listen, Gloucester, Gloucester, I want to speak with the Duke of Cornwall and his wife.

Well, my good lord, I have inform’d them so.

Well, my good lord, I have told them so.

Inform’d them! Dost thou understand me, man?

Told them! Do you understand me, man?

Ay, my good lord.

Yes, my good lord.

The King would speak with Cornwall; the dear father Would with his daughter speak, commands, tends, service, Are they inform’d of this? My breath and blood! Fiery? The fiery Duke, tell the hot Duke that— No, but not yet: maybe he is not well: Infirmity doth still neglect all office Whereto our health is bound: we are not ourselves When nature, being oppress’d, commands the mind To suffer with the body: I’ll forbear; And am fallen out with my more headier will, To take the indispos’d and sickly fit For the sound man. [Looking on Kent.] Death on my state! Wherefore Should he sit here? This act persuades me That this remotion of the Duke and her Is practice only. Give me my servant forth. Go tell the Duke and’s wife I’d speak with them, Now, presently: bid them come forth and hear me, Or at their chamber door I’ll beat the drum Till it cry sleep to death.

The King wants to speak with Cornwall; the loving father wants to speak with his daughter, and orders their obedience and attendance. Have they been told that? My life and blood! Fiery? The fiery Duke — tell the hot-tempered Duke that— No, wait, not yet. Maybe he isn't well. Illness always makes us neglect the duties we're bound to perform in health. We're not ourselves when the body, being under strain, forces the mind to suffer along with it. I'll hold back, and I'm angry with my own too hasty impulse for taking a sick man's attack of illness for the sound man himself. [Looking at Kent.] Death upon my royal dignity! Why should he be sitting here? This act convinces me that this withdrawal of the Duke and my daughter is nothing but a trick. Set my servant free. Go and tell the Duke and his wife I want to speak to them — now, at once. Tell them to come out and hear me, or I'll beat the drum at their bedroom door until it kills their sleep.

I would have all well betwixt you.

I wish everything were well between you.

O me, my heart, my rising heart! But down!

Oh, my heart, my heart is swelling up! But get down!

Cry to it, nuncle, as the cockney did to the eels when she put ’em i’ the paste alive; she knapped ’em o’ the coxcombs with a stick and cried ‘Down, wantons, down!’ ’Twas her brother that, in pure kindness to his horse buttered his hay.

Shout at it, uncle, the way the city woman did to the eels when she put them in the pastry alive. She rapped them on the heads with a stick and cried, 'Down, you unruly things, down!' It was her brother who, out of sheer love for his horse, buttered its hay.

Good morrow to you both.

Good morning to you both.

Hail to your grace!

Greetings to your grace!

I am glad to see your highness.

I'm glad to see your highness.

Regan, I think you are; I know what reason I have to think so: if thou shouldst not be glad, I would divorce me from thy mother’s tomb, Sepulchring an adultress. [To Kent] O, are you free? Some other time for that.—Beloved Regan, Thy sister’s naught: O Regan, she hath tied Sharp-tooth’d unkindness, like a vulture, here.

Regan, I believe you are; I know what reason I have for believing it. If you weren't glad, I'd divorce myself from your mother's grave as the tomb of an adulteress. [To Kent] Oh, are you free? We'll talk about that some other time. — Beloved Regan, your sister is worthless. Oh, Regan, she has fastened sharp-toothed cruelty here, like a vulture.

I can scarce speak to thee; thou’lt not believe With how deprav’d a quality—O Regan!

I can hardly speak to you. You wouldn't believe with how corrupt a nature— Oh, Regan!

I pray you, sir, take patience. I have hope You less know how to value her desert Than she to scant her duty.

Please, sir, be patient. My hope is that you're less able to appreciate what she deserves than she is likely to fall short in her duty.

Say, how is that?

Tell me, how do you mean?

I cannot think my sister in the least Would fail her obligation. If, sir, perchance She have restrain’d the riots of your followers, ’Tis on such ground, and to such wholesome end, As clears her from all blame.

I can't believe my sister would fail in her obligations in the slightest. If, sir, she happened to curb the disorderly behaviour of your followers, it was for such good reason and to such a healthy purpose that it clears her of all blame.

My curses on her.

My curses on her.

O, sir, you are old; Nature in you stands on the very verge Of her confine: you should be rul’d and led By some discretion, that discerns your state Better than you yourself. Therefore I pray you, That to our sister you do make return; Say you have wrong’d her, sir.

Oh, sir, you are old. Nature in you stands right at the edge of its limit. You ought to be ruled and guided by someone with judgement, who understands your condition better than you do yourself. So I beg you, go back to our sister, and say you have wronged her, sir.

Ask her forgiveness? Do you but mark how this becomes the house? ‘Dear daughter, I confess that I am old; [Kneeling.] Age is unnecessary: on my knees I beg That you’ll vouchsafe me raiment, bed, and food.’

Ask her forgiveness? Just look at how this suits the royal family: 'Dear daughter, I admit that I am old; [He kneels.] old age is useless. On my knees I beg you to be so kind as to grant me clothing, a bed and food.'

Good sir, no more! These are unsightly tricks: Return you to my sister.

Good sir, stop it! These are ugly performances. Go back to my sister.

[Rising.] Never, Regan: She hath abated me of half my train; Look’d black upon me; struck me with her tongue, Most serpent-like, upon the very heart. All the stor’d vengeances of heaven fall On her ingrateful top! Strike her young bones, You taking airs, with lameness!

[He rises.] Never, Regan. She has cut my retinue down by half; she has looked at me with a black face; she has struck me with her tongue, like a snake, right on the heart. May all heaven's stored-up revenges fall on her ungrateful head! You infecting winds, strike her unborn children with crippling disease!

Fie, sir, fie!

Shame, sir, shame!

You nimble lightnings, dart your blinding flames Into her scornful eyes! Infect her beauty, You fen-suck’d fogs, drawn by the powerful sun, To fall and blast her pride!

You quick lightnings, shoot your blinding flames into her scornful eyes! Ruin her beauty, you fogs sucked out of the swamps by the powerful sun, so that you fall and wither her pride!

O the blest gods! So will you wish on me when the rash mood is on.

Oh, blessed gods! You'll wish the same things on me when one of your rash moods takes you.

No, Regan, thou shalt never have my curse. Thy tender-hefted nature shall not give Thee o’er to harshness. Her eyes are fierce; but thine Do comfort, and not burn. ’Tis not in thee To grudge my pleasures, to cut off my train, To bandy hasty words, to scant my sizes, And, in conclusion, to oppose the bolt Against my coming in. Thou better know’st The offices of nature, bond of childhood, Effects of courtesy, dues of gratitude; Thy half o’ the kingdom hast thou not forgot, Wherein I thee endow’d.

No, Regan, you'll never have my curse. Your gentle nature won't hand you over to harshness. Her eyes are savage, but yours give comfort, they don't burn. It isn't in you to begrudge me my pleasures, to cut down my retinue, to trade angry words with me, to reduce my allowances, and, finally, to bolt the door against my coming in. You understand better the duties of nature, the bond of a child, the requirements of courtesy, the debts of gratitude. You haven't forgotten your half of the kingdom, which I gave to you.

Good sir, to the purpose.

Good sir, get to the point.

Who put my man i’ the stocks?

Who put my man in the stocks?

What trumpet’s that?

Whose trumpet is that?

I know’t, my sister’s: this approves her letter, That she would soon be here.

I recognise it — it's my sister's. This confirms her letter, saying she would be here soon.

Is your lady come?

Has your mistress arrived?

This is a slave, whose easy borrowed pride Dwells in the fickle grace of her he follows. Out, varlet, from my sight!

This is a slave whose cheap, borrowed pride depends on the changeable favour of the woman he serves. Get out of my sight, you scoundrel!

What means your grace?

What does your grace mean?

Who stock’d my servant? Regan, I have good hope Thou didst not know on’t. Who comes here? O heavens!

Who put my servant in the stocks? Regan, I have good hope that you knew nothing about it. Who is coming here? Oh, heavens!

If you do love old men, if your sweet sway Allow obedience, if yourselves are old, Make it your cause; send down, and take my part! [To Goneril.] Art not asham’d to look upon this beard? O Regan, wilt thou take her by the hand?

If you love old men, if your gentle rule approves of obedience, if you yourselves are old, then make this your own quarrel; send down and take my side! [To Goneril.] Aren't you ashamed to look at this grey beard? Oh Regan, will you take her by the hand?

Why not by the hand, sir? How have I offended? All’s not offence that indiscretion finds And dotage terms so.

Why not by the hand, sir? What wrong have I done? Not everything is an offence that recklessness calls one and senile old age labels so.

O sides, you are too tough! Will you yet hold? How came my man i’ the stocks?

Oh, my ribs, you are too strong! Will you still hold together? How did my man come to be in the stocks?

I set him there, sir: but his own disorders Deserv’d much less advancement.

I put him there, sir; but his own riotous behaviour deserved far less honour than that.

You? Did you?

You? Did you?

I pray you, father, being weak, seem so. If, till the expiration of your month, You will return and sojourn with my sister, Dismissing half your train, come then to me: I am now from home, and out of that provision Which shall be needful for your entertainment.

Please, father, since you are weak, act like it. If you will go back and stay with my sister until your month is up, dismissing half your followers, then come to me. I am away from home just now, and without the supplies that would be needed to look after you.

Return to her, and fifty men dismiss’d? No, rather I abjure all roofs, and choose To wage against the enmity o’ the air; To be a comrade with the wolf and owl, Necessity’s sharp pinch! Return with her? Why, the hot-blooded France, that dowerless took Our youngest born, I could as well be brought To knee his throne, and, squire-like, pension beg To keep base life afoot. Return with her? Persuade me rather to be slave and sumpter To this detested groom.

Go back to her, and dismiss fifty men? No, I would sooner give up all shelter and choose to struggle against the hostile open air, to be the companion of the wolf and the owl — the sharp pinch of want! Go back with her? Why, hot-blooded France, who took our youngest child without a dowry — I could just as easily be brought to kneel before his throne and beg an allowance like an attendant, to keep this low life going. Go back with her? You might as well persuade me to be the slave and pack-horse of this loathsome servant.

At your choice, sir.

It's your choice, sir.

I prythee, daughter, do not make me mad: I will not trouble thee, my child; farewell: We’ll no more meet, no more see one another. But yet thou art my flesh, my blood, my daughter; Or rather a disease that’s in my flesh, Which I must needs call mine. Thou art a boil, A plague sore, or embossed carbuncle In my corrupted blood. But I’ll not chide thee; Let shame come when it will, I do not call it: I do not bid the thunder-bearer shoot, Nor tell tales of thee to high-judging Jove: Mend when thou canst; be better at thy leisure: I can be patient; I can stay with Regan, I and my hundred knights.

I beg you, daughter, don't drive me mad. I won't trouble you, my child; goodbye. We'll meet no more, see each other no more. And yet you are my flesh, my blood, my daughter — or rather a disease within my flesh, which I have to call my own. You are a boil, a plague sore, a swollen abscess in my infected blood. But I won't scold you. Let shame come when it will; I'm not summoning it. I am not asking the god of thunder to strike, nor telling tales about you to Jove, the high judge. Reform when you can; improve when it suits you. I can be patient; I can stay with Regan, I and my hundred knights.

Not altogether so, I look’d not for you yet, nor am provided For your fit welcome. Give ear, sir, to my sister; For those that mingle reason with your passion Must be content to think you old, and so— But she knows what she does.

Not quite like that. I wasn't expecting you yet, and I'm not prepared to give you a proper welcome. Listen to my sister, sir; because those who look at your rage with any reason must be content to conclude that you are old, and so — but she knows what she is doing.

Is this well spoken?

Is that well said?

I dare avouch it, sir: what, fifty followers? Is it not well? What should you need of more? Yea, or so many, sith that both charge and danger Speak ’gainst so great a number? How in one house Should many people, under two commands, Hold amity? ’Tis hard; almost impossible.

I'll vouch for it, sir. What, fifty followers? Isn't that enough? Why should you need more? Yes, or even that many, when both the expense and the danger argue against so large a number? How could so many people, in one house, under two different masters, keep the peace? It's difficult — almost impossible.

Why might not you, my lord, receive attendance From those that she calls servants, or from mine?

Why couldn't you be waited on, my lord, by the people she calls her servants, or by mine?

Why not, my lord? If then they chanc’d to slack ye, We could control them. If you will come to me,— For now I spy a danger,—I entreat you To bring but five-and-twenty: to no more Will I give place or notice.

Why not, my lord? If they happened to neglect you then, we could discipline them. If you will come to me — because now I see a risk — I ask you to bring only twenty-five; I won't make room for, or acknowledge, any more than that.

I gave you all,—

I gave you everything—

And in good time you gave it.

And you gave it just in time.

Made you my guardians, my depositaries; But kept a reservation to be followed With such a number. What, must I come to you With five-and-twenty, Regan, said you so?

I made you my guardians, my trustees, but I kept one condition, that I should be attended by a set number of men. What, must I come to you with twenty-five? Regan, did you say that?

And speak’t again my lord; no more with me.

And I say it again, my lord: no more than that with me.

Those wicked creatures yet do look well-favour’d When others are more wicked; not being the worst Stands in some rank of praise. [To Goneril.] I’ll go with thee: Thy fifty yet doth double five-and-twenty, And thou art twice her love.

Wicked creatures still look handsome when others are more wicked; not being the worst earns some measure of praise. [To Goneril.] I'll go with you. Your fifty is still double twenty-five, so your love is twice hers.

Hear me, my lord: What need you five-and-twenty? Ten? Or five? To follow in a house where twice so many Have a command to tend you?

Listen to me, my lord. Why do you need twenty-five? Or ten? Or five? In a house where twice that many have orders to look after you?

What need one?

Why do you need even one?

O, reason not the need: our basest beggars Are in the poorest thing superfluous: Allow not nature more than nature needs, Man’s life is cheap as beast’s. Thou art a lady; If only to go warm were gorgeous, Why, nature needs not what thou gorgeous wear’st Which scarcely keeps thee warm. But, for true need,— You heavens, give me that patience, patience I need! You see me here, you gods, a poor old man, As full of grief as age; wretched in both! If it be you that stirs these daughters’ hearts Against their father, fool me not so much To bear it tamely; touch me with noble anger, And let not women’s weapons, water-drops, Stain my man’s cheeks! No, you unnatural hags, I will have such revenges on you both That all the world shall,—I will do such things,— What they are yet, I know not; but they shall be The terrors of the earth. You think I’ll weep; No, I’ll not weep:— [Storm and tempest.] I have full cause of weeping; but this heart Shall break into a hundred thousand flaws Or ere I’ll weep.—O fool, I shall go mad!

Oh, don't argue about need! Our lowest beggars have something more than the barest necessity in their poorest belongings. If you allow people no more than nature strictly needs, then a human life is worth no more than an animal's. You are a lady: if warmth were all that fine clothes were for, why, nature has no need of the splendid things you wear, which hardly keep you warm at all. But as for real need — you heavens, give me the patience, the patience I need! You see me here, you gods, a poor old man, as full of sorrow as of years, miserable in both! If it is you who are turning these daughters' hearts against their father, don't make such a fool of me that I bear it meekly; fill me with noble anger, and don't let women's weapons, tears, stain my man's cheeks! No, you monstrous witches, I will take such revenge on you both that the whole world shall — I will do such things — what they are, I don't yet know, but they shall be the terrors of the earth. You think I'll weep. No, I won't weep. [Storm and tempest.] I have every reason to weep, but this heart will break into a hundred thousand fragments before I weep. Oh, Fool, I shall go mad!

Let us withdraw; ’twill be a storm.

Let's go inside; there's going to be a storm.

This house is little: the old man and his people Cannot be well bestow’d.

This house is small: the old man and his people can't be properly accommodated.

’Tis his own blame; hath put himself from rest And must needs taste his folly.

It's his own fault; he has driven himself out of his comfort, and he must take the consequences of his foolishness.

For his particular, I’ll receive him gladly, But not one follower.

As for him by himself, I'll take him in gladly, but not a single follower.

So am I purpos’d. Where is my lord of Gloucester?

That's my intention too. Where is my lord of Gloucester?

Followed the old man forth, he is return’d.

He went out after the old man; he's back now.

The King is in high rage.

The King is in a violent rage.

Whither is he going?

Where is he going?

He calls to horse; but will I know not whither.

He is calling for his horse, but where he means to go I don't know.

’Tis best to give him way; he leads himself.

It's best to let him have his way; he insists on leading himself.

My lord, entreat him by no means to stay.

My lord, don't on any account beg him to stay.

Alack, the night comes on, and the high winds Do sorely ruffle; for many miles about There’s scarce a bush.

Oh no, night is coming on, and the strong winds are blowing bitterly; for many miles around there's hardly a bush.

O, sir, to wilful men The injuries that they themselves procure Must be their schoolmasters. Shut up your doors. He is attended with a desperate train, And what they may incense him to, being apt To have his ear abus’d, wisdom bids fear.

Oh, sir, for stubborn men the harm they bring on themselves has to be their teacher. Lock your doors. He has a reckless crowd of men with him, and since he is easily persuaded to listen to bad advice, good sense says we should fear what they may stir him up to do.

Shut up your doors, my lord; ’tis a wild night. My Regan counsels well: come out o’ the storm.

Lock your doors, my lord; it's a wild night. My Regan gives good advice. Come in out of the storm.