thy golden one away. If I speak like myself in this, let him be whipped that first finds it so. [Singing.] Fools had ne’er less grace in a year; For wise men are grown foppish, And know not how their wits to wear, Their manners are so apish.
Lear.
When were you wont to be so full of songs, sirrah?
Fool.
I have used it, nuncle, e’er since thou mad’st thy daughters thy
mothers; for when thou gav’st them the rod, and puttest down
thine own breeches,
[Singing.]
Then they for sudden joy did weep,
And I for sorrow sung,
That such a king should play bo-peep
And go the fools among.
Pr’ythee, nuncle, keep a schoolmaster that can teach thy fool to lie; I would fain learn to lie.
Lear.
An you lie, sirrah, we’ll have you whipped.
Fool. I marvel what kin thou and thy daughters are: they’ll have me whipped for speaking true; thou’lt have me whipped for lying; and sometimes I am whipped for holding my peace. I had rather be any kind o’ thing than a fool: and yet I would not be thee, nuncle: thou hast pared thy wit o’ both sides, and left nothing i’ the middle:—here comes one o’ the parings.
[Enter Goneril.]
Lear. How now, daughter? What makes that frontlet on? Methinks you are too much of late i’ the frown.
Fool. Thou wast a pretty fellow when thou hadst no need to care for her frowning. Now thou art an O without a figure: I am better than thou art; I am a fool, thou art nothing.—Yes, forsooth, I will hold my tongue. So your face [To Goneril.] bids me, though you say nothing. Mum, mum, He that keeps nor crust nor crum, Weary of all, shall want some.— [Pointing to Lear.] That’s a shealed peascod.
Gon.
Not only, sir, this your all-licens’d fool,
But other of your insolent retinue
Do hourly carp and quarrel; breaking forth
In rank and not-to-be-endured riots. Sir,
I had thought, by making this well known unto you,
To have found a safe redress; but now grow fearful,
By what yourself too late have spoke and done,
That you protect this course, and put it on
By your allowance; which if you should, the fault
Would not scape censure, nor the redresses sleep,
Which, in the tender of a wholesome weal,
Might in their working do you that offence
Which else were shame, that then necessity
Will call discreet proceeding.
Fool.
For you know, nuncle,
The hedge-sparrow fed the cuckoo so long
That it had it head bit off by it young.
So out went the candle, and we were left darkling.
Lear.
Are you our daughter?
Gon.
Come, sir,
I would you would make use of that good wisdom,
Whereof I know you are fraught; and put away
These dispositions, that of late transform you
From what you rightly are.
Fool. May not an ass know when the cart draws the horse?—Whoop, Jug! I love thee!
Lear.
Doth any here know me?—This is not Lear;
Doth Lear walk thus? speak thus? Where are his eyes?
Either his notion weakens, his discernings
Are lethargied.—Ha! waking? ‘Tis not so!—
Who is it that can tell me who I am?
Fool.
Lear’s shadow.
Lear.
I would learn that; for, by the marks of sovereignty,
Knowledge, and reason,
I should be false persuaded I had daughters.
Fool.
Which they will make an obedient father.
Lear.
Your name, fair gentlewoman?
Gon.
This admiration, sir, is much o’ the favour
Of other your new pranks. I do beseech you
To understand my purposes aright:
As you are old and reverend, you should be wise.
Here do you keep a hundred knights and squires;
Men so disorder’d, so debosh’d, and bold
That this our court, infected with their manners,
Shows like a riotous inn: epicurism and lust
Make it more like a tavern or a brothel
Than a grac’d palace. The shame itself doth speak
For instant remedy: be, then, desir’d
By her that else will take the thing she begs
A little to disquantity your train;
And the remainder, that shall still depend,
To be such men as may besort your age,
Which know themselves, and you.
Lear.
Darkness and devils!—
Saddle my horses; call my train together.—
Degenerate bastard! I’ll not trouble thee:
Yet have I left a daughter.
Gon.
You strike my people; and
