King Lear, Act 3, Scene 1

Who’s there, besides foul weather?

Who's there, besides the foul weather?

One minded like the weather, most unquietly.

Someone whose mind is like the weather, extremely disturbed.

I know you. Where’s the King?

I know you. Where's the King?

Contending with the fretful elements; Bids the wind blow the earth into the sea, Or swell the curled waters ’bove the main, That things might change or cease; tears his white hair, Which the impetuous blasts with eyeless rage, Catch in their fury and make nothing of; Strives in his little world of man to outscorn The to-and-fro-conflicting wind and rain. This night, wherein the cub-drawn bear would couch, The lion and the belly-pinched wolf Keep their fur dry, unbonneted he runs, And bids what will take all.

Struggling against the angry elements; he tells the wind to blow the earth into the sea, or to make the curling waves swell above the mainland, so that things might be changed or destroyed; he tears at his white hair, which the violent gusts, raging blindly, snatch at in their fury and reduce to nothing; he tries, in the little world of his own body, to outface the wind and rain fighting back and forth. On a night like this, when the bear whose cubs have sucked her dry would lie hidden, and the lion and the starving wolf keep their fur dry, he runs bare-headed, and calls on whatever will come to take everything.

But who is with him?

But who is with him?

None but the fool, who labours to out-jest His heart-struck injuries.

No one but the fool, who works to joke away the injuries that have struck his heart.

Sir, I do know you; And dare, upon the warrant of my note Commend a dear thing to you. There is division, Although as yet the face of it be cover’d With mutual cunning, ’twixt Albany and Cornwall; Who have, as who have not, that their great stars Throne’d and set high; servants, who seem no less, Which are to France the spies and speculations Intelligent of our state. What hath been seen, Either in snuffs and packings of the Dukes; Or the hard rein which both of them have borne Against the old kind King; or something deeper, Whereof, perchance, these are but furnishings;— But, true it is, from France there comes a power Into this scatter’d kingdom; who already, Wise in our negligence, have secret feet In some of our best ports, and are at point To show their open banner.—Now to you: If on my credit you dare build so far To make your speed to Dover, you shall find Some that will thank you making just report Of how unnatural and bemadding sorrow The King hath cause to plain. I am a gentleman of blood and breeding; And from some knowledge and assurance Offer this office to you.

Sir, I do know you, and on the strength of what I have observed I dare trust something precious to you. There is a quarrel, though its face is still covered by cunning on both sides, between Albany and Cornwall. They have — as anyone has who is set on a throne and raised high by great fortune — servants who seem no more than servants, but who are spies and observers for France, reporting on the state of our country. Whatever has been seen: either in the slights and plots of the Dukes, or in the harsh hand both of them have kept on the old, kind King, or something deeper, of which these things may be only the trimmings — but this much is true, a force is coming from France into this divided kingdom, which, taking clever advantage of our carelessness, has already secretly landed in some of our best harbours and is on the point of showing its banner openly. Now, as for you: if you dare trust my word far enough to hurry to Dover, you will find people there who will thank you for giving a truthful account of the unnatural, maddening grief the King has reason to complain of. I am a gentleman of good family and upbringing, and it is on certain knowledge and assurance that I offer you this task.

I will talk further with you.

I'll speak with you further about this.

No, do not. For confirmation that I am much more Than my out-wall, open this purse, and take What it contains. If you shall see Cordelia, As fear not but you shall, show her this ring; And she will tell you who your fellow is That yet you do not know. Fie on this storm! I will go seek the King.

No, don't. As proof that I am far more than my outward appearance, open this purse and take what's in it. If you see Cordelia — and have no fear, you will — show her this ring, and she will tell you who this companion of yours is, whom you don't yet know. A curse on this storm! I'll go and look for the King.

Give me your hand: have you no more to say?

Give me your hand. Have you nothing more to say?

Few words, but, to effect, more than all yet: That, when we have found the King, in which your pain That way, I’ll this; he that first lights on him Holla the other.

Few words, but in effect more than everything so far: that we must find the King — you take the trouble to search that way, I'll go this way; whichever of us comes upon him first is to shout for the other.