Whose mind and mine, I know, in that are one,Not to be overruled. Idle old man,
That still would manage those authorities
That he hath given away!—Now, by my life,
Old fools are babes again; and must be us’d
With checks as flatteries,—when they are seen abus’d.
Remember what I have said.
Osw.
Very well, madam.
Gon.
And let his knights have colder looks among you;
What grows of it, no matter; advise your fellows so;
I would breed from hence occasions, and I shall,
That I may speak.—I’ll write straight to my sister
To hold my very course.—Prepare for dinner.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE IV. A Hall in Albany’s Palace.
[Enter Kent, disguised.]
Kent.
If but as well I other accents borrow,
That can my speech defuse, my good intent
May carry through itself to that full issue
For which I rais’d my likeness.—Now, banish’d Kent,
If thou canst serve where thou dost stand condemn’d,
So may it come, thy master, whom thou lov’st,
Shall find thee full of labours.
[Horns within. Enter King Lear, Knights, and Attendants.]
Lear.
Let me not stay a jot for dinner; go get it ready.
[Exit an Attendant.]
How now! what art thou?
Kent.
A man, sir.
Lear.
What dost thou profess? What wouldst thou with us?
Kent. I do profess to be no less than I seem; to serve him truly that will put me in trust; to love him that is honest; to converse with him that is wise and says little; to fear judgment; to fight when I cannot choose; and to eat no fish.
Lear.
What art thou?
Kent.
A very honest-hearted fellow, and as poor as the king.
Lear. If thou be’st as poor for a subject as he’s for a king, thou art poor enough. What wouldst thou?
Kent.
Service.
Lear.
Who wouldst thou serve?
Kent.
You.
Lear.
Dost thou know me, fellow?
Kent. No, sir; but you have that in your countenance which I would fain call master.
Lear.
What’s that?
Kent.
Authority.
Lear.
What services canst thou do?
Kent. I can keep honest counsel, ride, run, mar a curious tale in telling it and deliver a plain message bluntly. That which ordinary men are fit for, I am qualified in, and the best of me is diligence.
Lear.
How old art thou?
Kent. Not so young, sir, to love a woman for singing; nor so old to dote on her for anything: I have years on my back forty-eight.
Lear.
Follow me; thou shalt serve me. If I like thee no worse after
dinner, I will not part from thee yet.—Dinner, ho, dinner!—
Where’s my knave? my fool?—Go you and call my fool hither.
[Exit an attendant.]
[Enter Oswald.]
You, you, sirrah, where’s my daughter?
Osw.
So please you,—
[Exit.]
Lear.
What says the fellow there? Call the clotpoll back.—
[Exit a Knight.]
Where’s my fool, ho?—I think the world’s asleep.
[Re-enter Knight.]
How now! where’s that mongrel?
Knight.
He says, my lord, your daughter is not well.
Lear.
Why came not the slave back to me when I called him?
Knight.
Sir, he answered me in the roundest manner, he would not.
Lear.
He would not!
Knight. My lord, I know not what the matter is; but to my judgment your highness is not entertained with that ceremonious affection as you were wont; there’s a great abatement of kindness appears as well in the general dependants as in the duke himself also and your daughter.
Lear.
Ha! say’st thou so?
Knight. I beseech you pardon me, my lord, if I be mistaken; for my duty cannot be silent when I think your highness wronged.
Lear. Thou but rememberest me of mine own conception: I have perceived a most faint neglect of late; which I have rather blamed as mine own jealous curiosity than as a very pretence and purpose of unkindness: I will look further into’t.—But where’s my fool? I have not seen him this two days.
Knight. Since my young lady’s going into France, sir, the fool hath much pined
