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 cruel 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 so mistook 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, they wouldn't do it; it's worse than murder to commit such a violent outrage against a man deserving respect. Explain to me, as quickly as you decently can, how you could have deserved, or they could have inflicted, this treatment on you, 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 was at their house and delivered your highness's letters to them, before I had got up from the spot where I knelt to show my duty, a steaming messenger arrived, sweating from his haste, half out of breath, gasping out greetings from his mistress Goneril. He handed over letters, breaking in on me, and they read them at once. Because of what was in them, they called up their household and took horse immediately; they ordered me to follow and wait until they found it convenient to answer, 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 fellow who behaved so insolently towards your highness lately — having more manhood than sense in me, I drew my sword. He roused the whole house with loud, cowardly shouting. Your son and daughter decided this offence deserved 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 kind. Fortune, that out-and-out whore, never unlocks her door to the poor. But in spite of all this, you'll get as many sorrows out of 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 hysteria swells up towards my heart! Hysterica passio, get down, you climbing grief, your proper place is lower down! Where is this daughter of mine?

With the earl, sir, here within.

With the earl, sir, inside here.

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 other offence 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 comes with such a small company?

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 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 school with an ant, to teach you that there's no work to be had in winter. Everyone who follows his nose is led by his eyes, except blind men; and there isn't one nose in twenty that can't smell someone 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 when the great one is going uphill, let it pull you along after it. When a wise man gives you better advice, 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 you and is out for profit, and follows you only for appearance's sake, will clear off as soon as it starts to rain, and leave you in the storm. But I'll stay behind; the fool will remain, and let the wise man run. The scoundrel who runs away turns into a fool; the fool, by God, is 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? These are nothing but excuses — the very look of rebellion and desertion. Get me a better answer.

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 set he is in whatever course he takes.

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

Vengeance! Plague! Death! Chaos! 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 what I'm saying, 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 — he orders it, he requires their service. Have they been told this? My breath 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 when we're healthy. We aren't ourselves when nature, being overloaded, forces the mind to suffer along with the body. I'll hold back; and I'm angry with my own rasher impulse, for taking a sick, unwell man to be a healthy one. [Looking at Kent.] Death take my royal state! Why should he be sitting here? This act convinces me that this withdrawal of the Duke and her is only a trick. Set my servant free. Go and tell the Duke and his wife that I want to speak with them, now, at once. Tell them to come out and hear me, or I'll beat a 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 no, my heart, my rising heart! 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 into the pastry alive. She rapped them on the heads with a stick and cried, "Get down, you wild things, get down!" It was her brother who, out of pure kindness to 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, you're free? We'll deal with that another time. — Beloved Regan, your sister is worthless. Oh Regan, she has fastened sharp-toothed unkindness 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 what a corrupt 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. I expect that you're less able to appreciate her worth 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 happens to have curbed the wild behaviour of your followers, it's for such good reasons and such a healthy purpose that she's cleared 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're old. Nature in you is standing right at the edge of its boundary. You should be ruled and guided by someone with judgement, who understands your condition better than you do yourself. So I beg you to 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 notice how well this suits the royal family: "Dear daughter, I admit that I'm old; [Kneeling.] old age is useless. On my knees I beg you to be so good 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!

[Getting up.] Never, Regan. She has cut my retinue down by half; she has looked at me with black looks; she has struck me with her tongue, exactly like a serpent, right on the heart. May all the stored-up vengeance of heaven fall on her ungrateful head! You infecting winds, strike her unborn child with lameness!

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 up out of the marshes by the powerful sun, and fall on her and blast her pride!

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

Oh, the blessed gods! You'll wish the same things on me when your rash mood comes over 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 will never have my curse. Your gentle nature will never hand you over to harshness. Her eyes are fierce, but yours give comfort, and 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 workings of courtesy, the debts of gratitude. You haven't forgotten the half of the kingdom I gave you.

Good sir, to the purpose.

Good sir, come 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 soon be here.

Is your lady come?

Has your lady 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 lives on the unreliable favour of the woman he serves. Get out of my sight, you scoundrel!

What means your grace?

What do you mean, your grace?

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 very much hope 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, make this your own quarrel; send down help 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 have I done wrong? Not everything is an offence that thoughtlessness discovers and senile old age calls one.

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

Oh, my sides, you are too tough! Will you hold together still? 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 bad 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 now, and without the supplies that would be needed to entertain you properly.

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 with fifty men dismissed? No, I would sooner renounce all roofs and choose to fight against the hostility of the open air; to be a companion of the wolf and the owl — the sharp pinch of need! Go back with her? Why, hot-blooded France, who took our youngest child with no dowry, I could just as easily be brought to kneel at his throne and beg a pension like a hired attendant, to keep this low life going. Go back with her? Persuade me instead to be the slave and pack-horse of this hateful servant.

At your choice, sir.

That'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.

Please, daughter, don't drive me mad. I won't trouble you, my child; goodbye. We'll never meet again, never see one another again. But still you are my flesh, my blood, my daughter — or rather a disease in my flesh, which I have to call my own. You are a boil, a plague sore, a swollen tumour in my infected blood. But I won't scold you. Let shame come when it will; I'm not summoning it. I'm not asking the god who carries the thunder to strike, nor telling tales about you to Jove, the high judge. Reform when you can; improve at your own convenience. 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 receive you properly. Listen to my sister, sir; because those who weigh your outburst against reason must accept that you are old, and so — but she knows what she's doing.

Is this well spoken?

Is this 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 stand by it, sir. What, fifty followers? Isn't that enough? What would you need more for? Yes, or even that many, since both the expense and the danger argue against so large a number? How could so many people, under two masters, live in friendship in one house? 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, my lord, be waited on 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 then happened to neglect you, 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 will make room for, or take notice of, no 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 a condition that I should be attended by that number of men. What, must I come to you with twenty-five, Regan? Is that what you said?

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.

Even wicked creatures still look attractive when others are more wicked; not being the worst earns some degree of praise. [To Goneril.] I'll go with you. Your fifty is still double twenty-five, and 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. What do you need twenty-five for? Or ten? Or five? In a house where twice that many have orders to look after you?

What need one?

What do you need even one for?

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 what's needed. Our lowest beggars have something more than they strictly need, even in their poorest possession. If you allow a person no more than bare nature requires, human life is as cheap as an animal's. You are a lady; if being warm were all that mattered in fine clothing, then nature doesn't need the fine clothes 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 loaded with grief as with years, miserable in both. If it is you who are stirring 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, drops of water, stain my man's cheeks! No, you unnatural witches, I will take such revenge on you both that all the world shall — I will do such things — what they are I don't yet know, but they will be the terrors of the earth. You think I'll cry; no, I won't cry. [Storm and tempest.] I have every reason to cry, but this heart will crack into a hundred thousand pieces before I cry. 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 thrown away his own comfort and has to taste the results of his foolishness.

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

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

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

That's what I intend too. Where is my lord of Gloucester?

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

He followed the old man out; he's come back.

The King is in high rage.

The King is in a towering rage.

Whither is he going?

Where is he going?

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

He's 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's guiding himself.

My lord, entreat him by no means to stay.

My lord, on no 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 blustering cruelly; 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's attended by a reckless crowd of men, and what they may provoke him to, since he is easily persuaded to listen to them, is something wisdom tells us to fear.

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.