Rose, Huntington Library and Gardens, Pasadena, California, USA (photo (c) Ulrike Boehm; all rights reserved)
[Return to "Shakespeare's Women" Overview]
If Ophelia has to contend with a father overly given to listening to flattery, she could take a page or two out of Cordelia's book: There she is, King Lear's youngest daughter; entering the stage as her father's beloved favourite – and in a matter of minutes, exiting disgraced, fatherless, cast out and, but for the French King's big heart, homeless ... and why all that? Pray, wherefore? Simply because she hasn't found it in herself to participate in her father's ill-conceived love contest for a share of his kingdom, in exchange for the duty of hosting and caring for him in turn with her less honest but honey-tongued sisters sisters Goneril and Regan who, as a consequence of Cordelia's steadfast denial, get to gobble up her share of the prize as well; along with the King's crown, which is jointly vested on their respective husbands. Now, it shouldn't come as a real surprise that King Lear will come to feel the full extent of his act of royal folly (in the truest sense) sooner rather than later; and as at this time Cordelia has already been whisked off to France by her new husband, she is no longer around to do anything about it (but then, even the loyal Duke of Kent, who has been swept out of favour in the same stroke as the young princess, and who has re-entered the King's service in disguise, has to stand by and carefully watch his own steps for a long time, in order not to show his hand too early). Summoned by Kent's letters, however, Cordelia at last makes a reappearance, as a result of which Lear is swiftly rescued from the misery wrought by his cruel elder daughters, and brought back from the brink of madness; and she herself is restored to her father's love ... albeit, alas, not for very long. – Throughout all of this, Cordelia remains a steadfast model of virtue, daughterly love and obedience and, most of all, honesty: that same honesty which brings her into such peril in the beginning, but which at last triumphs over her scheming sisters' machinations, even if at the cost of both Cordelia's own and Lear's deaths, which seem all the more cruel and unnecessary in light of the good she has done. Cordelia's obvious counterparts are her sisters, who seem endowed with every single vice corresponding to her manifold virtues; and if you're wondering why Shakespeare wasn't content to give us merely one single evil sister to contemplate, just watch and wait until these two start to bicker among themselves (as the likes of them always do eventually) ... culminating in a monster catfight over the favours of the similarly treacherous Edmund, the Duke of Gloucester's illegitimate younger son ,who has plotted to get rid of his own father and his elder brother Edward in a similar manner as Goneril and Regan of their nearesst and dearest; at the end of which Goneril poisons the now-widowed Regan, but is exposed by her own husband, the Duke of Albany, whom she had proposed to kill as well, and who sees the light just in time to join forces with Kent and Edward Gloucester, but unfortunately not timely enough to save Cordelia and Lear. – For all her many virtues (or maybe just because of them), and if it weren't for her rather blunt brand of honesty, one might find Cordelia a bit exasperating; but like Rosalind in "As You Like It," Beatrice in "Much Ado About Nothing," Portia in "The Merchant of Venice" and even young Juliet Capulet she also shows that in Shakespeare's world a virtuous female need not necessarily be a passive one: Not only does Cordelia's image continue to loom in the background even as Goneril and Regan embark on their course of their father's destruction, she is also the action's obvious catalyst from the moment she re-enters the stage, and her death ultimately brings about that of her father and thus, the end of the play.
Meantime we shall express our darker purpose.
Give me the map there. Know we have divided
In three our kingdom; and 'tis our fast intent
To shake all cares and business from our age,
Conferring them on younger strengths while we
Unburthen'd crawl toward death. Our son of Cornwall,
And you, our no less loving son of Albany,
We have this hour a constant will to publish
Our daughters' several dowers, that future strife
May be prevented now. The princes, France and Burgundy,
Great rivals in our youngest daughter's love,
Long in our court have made their amorous sojourn,
And here are to be answer'd. Tell me, my daughters
(Since now we will divest us both of rule,
Interest of territory, cares of state),
Which of you shall we say doth love us most?
That we our largest bounty may extend
Where nature doth with merit challenge. Goneril,
Our eldest-born, speak first.
Sir, I love you more than words can wield the matter;
Dearer than eyesight, space, and liberty;
Beyond what can be valued, rich or rare;
No less than life, with grace, health, beauty, honour;
As much as child e'er lov'd, or father found;
A love that makes breath poor, and speech unable.
Beyond all manner of so much I love you.
What shall Cordelia speak? Love, and be silent.
Of all these bounds, even from this line to this,
With shadowy forests and with champains rich'd,
With plenteous rivers and wide-skirted meads,
We make thee lady. To thine and Albany's issue
Be this perpetual. – What says our second daughter,
Our dearest Regan, wife to Cornwall? Speak.
Sir, I am made
Of the selfsame metal that my sister is,
And prize me at her worth. In my true heart
I find she names my very deed of love;
Only she comes too short, that I profess
Myself an enemy to all other joys
Which the most precious square of sense possesses,
And find I am alone felicitate
In your dear Highness' love.
Then poor Cordelia!
And yet not so; since I am sure my love's
More richer than my tongue.
To thee and thine hereditary ever
Remain this ample third of our fair kingdom,
No less in space, validity, and pleasure
Than that conferr'd on Goneril. – Now, our joy,
Although the last, not least; to whose young love
The vines of France and milk of Burgundy
Strive to be interest; what can you say to draw
A third more opulent than your sisters? Speak.
Nothing, my lord.
Nothing?
Nothing.
Nothing can come of nothing. Speak again.
Unhappy that I am, I cannot heave
My heart into my mouth. I love your Majesty
According to my bond; no more nor less.
How, how, Cordelia? Mend your speech a little,
Lest it may mar your fortunes.
Good my lord,
You have begot me, bred me, lov'd me; I
Return those duties back as are right fit,
Obey you, love you, and most honour you.
Why have my sisters husbands, if they say
They love you all? Haply, when I shall wed,
That lord whose hand must take my plight shall carry
Half my love with him, half my care and duty.
Sure I shall never marry like my sisters,
To love my father all.
But goes thy heart with this?
Ay, good my lord.
So young, and so untender?
So young, my lord, and true.
Let it be so! thy truth then be thy dower!
For, by the sacred radiance of the sun,
The mysteries of Hecate and the night;
By all the operation of the orbs
From whom we do exist and cease to be;
Here I disclaim all my paternal care,
Propinquity and property of blood,
And as a stranger to my heart and me
Hold thee from this for ever. The barbarous Scythian,
Or he that makes his generation messes
To gorge his appetite, shall to my bosom
Be as well neighbour'd, pitied, and reliev'd,
As thou my sometime daughter.
Good my liege –
Peace, Kent!
Come not between the dragon and his wrath.
I lov'd her most, and thought to set my rest
On her kind nursery. – Hence and avoid my sight! –
So be my grave my peace as here I give
Her father's heart from her! Call France! Who stirs?
Call Burgundy! Cornwall and Albany,
With my two daughters' dowers digest this third;
Let pride, which she calls plainness, marry her.
I do invest you jointly in my power,
Preeminence, and all the large effects
That troop with majesty. Ourself, by monthly course,
With reservation of an hundred knights,
By you to be sustain'd, shall our abode
Make with you by due turns. Only we still retain
The name, and all th' additions to a king. The sway,
Revenue, execution of the rest,
Beloved sons, be yours; which to confirm,
This coronet part betwixt you.
Royal Lear,
Whom I have ever honour'd as my king,
Lov'd as my father, as my master follow'd,
As my great patron thought on in my prayers –
The bow is bent and drawn; make from the shaft.
Let it fall rather, though the fork invade
The region of my heart! Be Kent unmannerly
When Lear is mad. What wouldst thou do, old man?
Think'st thou that duty shall have dread to speak
When power to flattery bows? To plainness honour's bound
When majesty falls to folly. Reverse thy doom;
And in thy best consideration check
This hideous rashness. Answer my life my judgment,
Thy youngest daughter does not love thee least,
Nor are those empty-hearted whose low sound
Reverbs no hollowness.
Kent, on thy life, no more!
My life I never held but as a pawn
To wage against thine enemies; nor fear to lose it,
Thy safety being the motive.
Out of my sight!
See better, Lear, and let me still remain
The true blank of thine eye.
Now by Apollo –
Now by Apollo, King,
Thou swear'st thy gods in vain.
O vassal! miscreant!
Dear sir, forbear!
Do!
Kill thy physician, and the fee bestow
Upon the foul disease. Revoke thy gift,
Or, whilst I can vent clamour from my throat,
I'll tell thee thou dost evil.
Hear me, recreant!
On thine allegiance, hear me!
Since thou hast sought to make us break our vow –
Which we durst never yet – and with strain'd pride
To come between our sentence and our power, –
Which nor our nature nor our place can bear, –
Our potency made good, take thy reward.
Five days we do allot thee for provision
To shield thee from diseases of the world,
And on the sixth to turn thy hated back
Upon our kingdom. If, on the tenth day following,
Thy banish'd trunk be found in our dominions,
The moment is thy death. Away! By Jupiter,
This shall not be revok'd.
Fare thee well, King. Since thus thou wilt appear,
Freedom lives hence, and banishment is here.
The gods to their dear shelter take thee, maid,
That justly think'st and hast most rightly said!
And your large speeches may your deeds approve,
That good effects may spring from words of love.
Thus Kent, O princes, bids you all adieu;
He'll shape his old course in a country new.
Here's France and Burgundy, my noble lord.
My Lord of Burgundy,
We first address toward you, who with this king
Hath rivall'd for our daughter. What in the least
Will you require in present dower with her,
Or cease your quest of love?
Most royal Majesty,
I crave no more than hath your Highness offer'd,
Nor will you tender less.
Right noble Burgundy,
When she was dear to us, we did hold her so;
But now her price is fall'n. Sir, there she stands.
If aught within that little seeming substance,
Or all of it, with our displeasure piec'd,
And nothing more, may fitly like your Grace,
She's there, and she is yours.
I know no answer.
Will you, with those infirmities she owes,
Unfriended, new adopted to our hate,
Dow'r'd with our curse, and stranger'd with our oath,
Take her, or leave her?
Pardon me, royal sir.
Election makes not up on such conditions.
Then leave her, sir; for, by the pow'r that made me,
I tell you all her wealth.
For you, great King,
I would not from your love make such a stray
To match you where I hate; therefore beseech you
T' avert your liking a more worthier way
Than on a wretch whom nature is asham'd
Almost t' acknowledge hers.
This is most strange,
That she that even but now was your best object,
The argument of your praise, balm of your age,
Most best, most dearest, should in this trice of time
Commit a thing so monstrous to dismantle
So many folds of favour. Sure her offence
Must be of such unnatural degree
That monsters it, or your fore-vouch'd affection
Fall'n into taint; which to believe of her
Must be a faith that reason without miracle
Should never plant in me.
I yet beseech your Majesty,
If for I want that glib and oily art
To speak and purpose not, since what I well intend,
I'll do't before I speak – that you make known
It is no vicious blot, murther, or foulness,
No unchaste action or dishonoured step,
That hath depriv'd me of your grace and favour;
But even for want of that for which I am richer –
A still-soliciting eye, and such a tongue
As I am glad I have not, though not to have it
Hath lost me in your liking.
Better thou
Hadst not been born than not t' have pleas'd me better.
Is it but this – a tardiness in nature
Which often leaves the history unspoke
That it intends to do? My Lord of Burgundy,
What say you to the lady? Love's not love
When it is mingled with regards that stands
Aloof from th' entire point. Will you have her?
She is herself a dowry.
Royal Lear,
Give but that portion which yourself propos'd,
And here I take Cordelia by the hand,
Duchess of Burgundy.
Nothing! I have sworn; I am firm.
I am sorry then you have so lost a father
That you must lose a husband.
Peace be with Burgundy!
Since that respects of fortune are his love,
I shall not be his wife.
Fairest Cordelia, that art most rich, being poor;
Most choice, forsaken; and most lov'd, despis'd!
Thee and thy virtues here I seize upon.
Be it lawful I take up what's cast away.
Gods, gods! 'tis strange that from their cold'st neglect
My love should kindle to inflam'd respect.
Thy dow'rless daughter, King, thrown to my chance,
Is queen of us, of ours, and our fair France.
Not all the dukes in wat'rish Burgundy
Can buy this unpriz'd precious maid of me.
Bid them farewell, Cordelia, though unkind.
Thou losest here, a better where to find.
Thou hast her, France; let her be thine; for we
Have no such daughter, nor shall ever see
That face of hers again. Therefore be gone
Without our grace, our love, our benison.
Come, noble Burgundy.
Bid farewell to your sisters.
The jewels of our father, with wash'd eyes
Cordelia leaves you. I know you what you are;
And, like a sister, am most loath to call
Your faults as they are nam'd. Use well our father.
To your professed bosoms I commit him;
But yet, alas, stood I within his grace,
I would prefer him to a better place!
So farewell to you both.
Prescribe not us our duties.
Let your study
Be to content your lord, who hath receiv'd you
At fortune's alms. You have obedience scanted,
And well are worth the want that you have wanted.
Time shall unfold what plighted cunning hides.
Who cover faults, at last shame them derides.
Well may you prosper!
Come, my fair Cordelia.
Sister, it is not little I have to say of what most nearly
appertains to us both. I think our father will hence to-night.
That's most certain, and with you; next month with us.
You see how full of changes his age is. The observation we
have made of it hath not been little. He always lov'd our
sister most, and with what poor judgment he hath now cast her
off appears too grossly.
'Tis the infirmity of his age; yet he hath ever but slenderly
known himself.
The best and soundest of his time hath been but rash; then
must we look to receive from his age, not alone the
imperfections of long-ingraffed condition, but therewithal
the unruly waywardness that infirm and choleric years bring with
them.
Such unconstant starts are we like to have from him as this
of Kent's banishment.
There is further compliment of leave-taking between France and
him. Pray you let's hit together. If our father carry authority
with such dispositions as he bears, this last surrender of his
will but offend us.
We shall further think on't.
We must do something, and i' th' heat.
Why the King of France is so suddenly gone back know you the
reason?
Something he left imperfect in the state, which since his
coming forth is thought of, which imports to the kingdom so much
fear and danger that his personal return was most required and
necessary.
Who hath he left behind him general?
The Marshal of France, Monsieur La Far.
Did your letters pierce the Queen to any demonstration of
grief?
Ay, sir. She took them, read them in my presence,
And now and then an ample tear trill'd down
Her delicate cheek. It seem'd she was a queen
Over her passion, who, most rebel-like,
Sought to be king o'er her.
O, then it mov'd her?
Not to a rage. Patience and sorrow strove
Who should express her goodliest. You have seen
Sunshine and rain at once: her smiles and tears
Were like, a better way. Those happy smilets
That play'd on her ripe lip seem'd not to know
What guests were in her eyes, which parted thence
As pearls from diamonds dropp'd. In brief,
Sorrow would be a rarity most belov'd,
If all could so become it.
Made she no verbal question?
Faith, once or twice she heav'd the name of father
Pantingly forth, as if it press'd her heart;
Cried 'Sisters, sisters! Shame of ladies! Sisters!
Kent! father! sisters! What, i' th' storm? i' th' night?
Let pity not be believ'd!' There she shook
The holy water from her heavenly eyes,
And clamour moisten'd. Then away she started
To deal with grief alone.
It is the stars,
The stars above us, govern our conditions;
Else one self mate and mate could not beget
Such different issues. You spoke not with her since?
No.
Was this before the King return'd?
No, since.
Well, sir, the poor distressed Lear's i' th' town;
Who sometime, in his better tune, remembers
What we are come about, and by no means
Will yield to see his daughter.
Why, good sir?
A sovereign shame so elbows him; his own unkindness,
That stripp'd her from his benediction, turn'd her
To foreign casualties, gave her dear rights
To his dog-hearted daughters – these things sting
His mind so venomously that burning shame
Detains him from Cordelia.
Alack, poor gentleman!
Of Albany's and Cornwall's powers you heard not?
'Tis so; they are afoot.
Well, sir, I'll bring you to our master Lear
And leave you to attend him. Some dear cause
Will in concealment wrap me up awhile.
When I am known aright, you shall not grieve
Lending me this acquaintance. I pray you go
Along with me.
Alack, 'tis he! Why, he was met even now
As mad as the vex'd sea, singing aloud,
Crown'd with rank fumiter and furrow weeds,
With hardocks, hemlock, nettles, cuckoo flow'rs,
Darnel, and all the idle weeds that grow
In our sustaining corn. A century send forth.
Search every acre in the high-grown field
And bring him to our eye.
What can man's wisdom
In the restoring his bereaved sense?
He that helps him take all my outward worth.
There is means, madam.
Our foster nurse of nature is repose,
The which he lacks. That to provoke in him
Are many simples operative, whose power
Will close the eye of anguish.
All blest secrets,
All you unpublish'd virtues of the earth,
Spring with my tears! be aidant and remediate
In the good man's distress! Seek, seek for him!
Lest his ungovern'd rage dissolve the life
That wants the means to lead it.
News, madam.
The British pow'rs are marching hitherward.
'Tis known before. Our preparation stands
In expectation of them. O dear father,
It is thy business that I go about.
Therefore great France
My mourning and important tears hath pitied.
No blown ambition doth our arms incite,
But love, dear love, and our ag'd father's right.
Soon may I hear and see him!
O thou good Kent, how shall I live and work
To match thy goodness? My life will be too short
And every measure fail me.
To be acknowledg'd, madam, is o'erpaid.
All my reports go with the modest truth;
Nor more nor clipp'd, but so.
Be better suited.
These weeds are memories of those worser hours.
I prithee put them off.
Pardon, dear madam.
Yet to be known shortens my made intent.
My boon I make it that you know me not
Till time and I think meet.
Then be't so, my good lord.
How, does the King?
Madam, sleeps still.
O you kind gods,
Cure this great breach in his abused nature!
Th' untun'd and jarring senses, O, wind up
Of this child-changed father!
So please your Majesty
That we may wake the King? He hath slept long.
Be govern'd by your knowledge, and proceed
I' th' sway of your own will. Is he array'd?
Ay, madam. In the heaviness of sleep
We put fresh garments on him.
Be by, good madam, when we do awake him.
I doubt not of his temperance.
Very well.
Please you draw near. Louder the music there!
O my dear father, restoration hang
Thy medicine on my lips, and let this kiss
Repair those violent harms that my two sisters
Have in thy reverence made!
Kind and dear princess!
Had you not been their father, these white flakes
Had challeng'd pity of them. Was this a face
To be oppos'd against the warring winds?
To stand against the deep dread-bolted thunder?
In the most terrible and nimble stroke
Of quick cross lightning? to watch – poor perdu! –
With this thin helm? Mine enemy's dog,
Though he had bit me, should have stood that night
Against my fire; and wast thou fain, poor father,
To hovel thee with swine and rogues forlorn,
In short and musty straw? Alack, alack!
'Tis wonder that thy life and wits at once
Had not concluded all. – He wakes. Speak to him.
Madam, do you; 'tis fittest.
How does my royal lord? How fares your Majesty?
You do me wrong to take me out o' th' grave.
Thou art a soul in bliss; but I am bound
Upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears
Do scald like molten lead.
Sir, do you know me?
You are a spirit, I know. When did you die?
Still, still, far wide!
He's scarce awake. Let him alone awhile.
Where have I been? Where am I? Fair daylight,
I am mightily abus'd. I should e'en die with pity,
To see another thus. I know not what to say.
I will not swear these are my hands. Let's see.
I feel this pin prick. Would I were assur'd
Of my condition!
O, look upon me, sir,
And hold your hands in benediction o'er me.
No, sir, you must not kneel.
Pray, do not mock me.
I am a very foolish fond old man,
Fourscore and upward, not an hour more nor less;
And, to deal plainly,
I fear I am not in my perfect mind.
Methinks I should know you, and know this man;
Yet I am doubtful; for I am mainly ignorant
What place this is; and all the skill I have
Remembers not these garments; nor I know not
Where I did lodge last night. Do not laugh at me;
For (as I am a man) I think this lady
To be my child Cordelia.
And so I am! I am!
Be your tears wet? Yes, faith. I pray weep not.
If you have poison for me, I will drink it.
I know you do not love me; for your sisters
Have, as I do remember, done me wrong.
You have some cause, they have not.
No cause, no cause.
Am I in France?
In your own kingdom, sir.
Do not abuse me.
Be comforted, good madam. The great rage
You see is kill'd in him; and yet it is danger
To make him even o'er the time he has lost.
Desire him to go in. Trouble him no more
Till further settling.
Will't please your Highness walk?
You must bear with me.
Pray you now, forget and forgive. I am old and foolish.
Holds it true, sir, that the Duke of Cornwall was so slain?
Most certain, sir.
Who is conductor of his people?
As 'tis said, the bastard son of Gloucester.
They say Edgar, his banish'd son, is with the Earl of Kent
in Germany.
Report is changeable. 'Tis time to look about; the powers of
the kingdom approach apace.
The arbitrement is like to be bloody.
Fare you well, sir.
My point and period will be throughly wrought,
Or well or ill, as this day's battle's fought.
Know of the Duke if his last purpose hold,
Or whether since he is advis'd by aught
To change the course. He's full of alteration
And self-reproving. Bring his constant pleasure.
Our sister's man is certainly miscarried.
Tis to be doubted, madam.
Now, sweet lord,
You know the goodness I intend upon you.
Tell me – but truly – but then speak the truth –
Do you not love my sister?
In honour'd love.
But have you never found my brother's way
To the forfended place?
That thought abuses you.
I am doubtful that you have been conjunct
And bosom'd with her, as far as we call hers.
No, by mine honour, madam.
I never shall endure her. Dear my lord,
Be not familiar with her.
Fear me not.
She and the Duke her husband!
I had rather lose the battle than that sister
Should loosen him and me.
Our very loving sister, well bemet.
Sir, this I hear: the King is come to his daughter,
With others whom the rigour of our state
Forc'd to cry out. Where I could not be honest,
I never yet was valiant. For this business,
It toucheth us as France invades our land,
Not bolds the King, with others whom, I fear,
Most just and heavy causes make oppose.
Sir, you speak nobly.
Why is this reason'd?
Combine together 'gainst the enemy;
For these domestic and particular broils
Are not the question here.
Let's then determine
With th' ancient of war on our proceeding.
I shall attend you presently at your tent.
Sister, you'll go with us?
No.
'Tis most convenient. Pray you go with us.
O, ho, I know the riddle. – I will go.
If e'er your Grace had speech with man so poor,
Hear me one word.
I'll overtake you. – Speak.
Before you fight the battle, ope this letter.
If you have victory, let the trumpet sound
For him that brought it. Wretched though I seem,
I can produce a champion that will prove
What is avouched there. If you miscarry,
Your business of the world hath so an end,
And machination ceases. Fortune love you!
Stay till I have read the letter.
I was forbid it.
When time shall serve, let but the herald cry,
And I'll appear again.
Why, fare thee well. I will o'erlook thy paper.
The enemy 's in view; draw up your powers.
Here is the guess of their true strength and forces
By diligent discovery; but your haste
Is now urg'd on you.
We will greet the time.
To both these sisters have I sworn my love;
Each jealous of the other, as the stung
Are of the adder. Which of them shall I take?
Both? one? or neither? Neither can be enjoy'd,
If both remain alive. To take the widow
Exasperates, makes mad her sister Goneril;
And hardly shall I carry out my side,
Her husband being alive. Now then, we'll use
His countenance for the battle, which being done,
Let her who would be rid of him devise
His speedy taking off. As for the mercy
Which he intends to Lear and to Cordelia –
The battle done, and they within our power,
Shall never see his pardon; for my state
Stands on me to defend, not to debate.
Some officers take them away. Good guard
Until their greater pleasures first be known
That are to censure them.
We are not the first
Who with best meaning have incurr'd the worst.
For thee, oppressed king, am I cast down;
Myself could else outfrown false Fortune's frown.
Shall we not see these daughters and these sisters?
No, no, no, no! Come, let's away to prison.
We two alone will sing like birds i' th' cage.
When thou dost ask me blessing, I'll kneel down
And ask of thee forgiveness. So we'll live,
And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh
At gilded butterflies, and hear poor rogues
Talk of court news; and we'll talk with them too –
Who loses and who wins; who's in, who's out –
And take upon 's the mystery of things,
As if we were God's spies; and we'll wear out,
In a wall'd prison, packs and sects of great ones
That ebb and flow by th' moon.
Take them away.
Upon such sacrifices, my Cordelia,
The gods themselves throw incense. Have I caught thee?
He that parts us shall bring a brand from heaven
And fire us hence like foxes. Wipe thine eyes.
The goodyears shall devour 'em, flesh and fell,
Ere they shall make us weep! We'll see 'em starv'd first.
Come.
Come hither, Captain; hark.
Take thou this note.
Go follow them to prison.
One step I have advanc'd thee. If thou dost
As this instructs thee, thou dost make thy way
To noble fortunes. Know thou this, that men
Are as the time is. To be tender-minded
Does not become a sword. Thy great employment
Will not bear question. Either say thou'lt do't,
Or thrive by other means.
I'll do't, my lord.
About it! and write happy when th' hast done.
Mark – I say, instantly; and carry it so
As I have set it down.
I cannot draw a cart, nor eat dried oats;
If it be man's work, I'll do't.
Sir, you have show'd to-day your valiant strain,
And fortune led you well. You have the captives
Who were the opposites of this day's strife.
We do require them of you, so to use them
As we shall find their merits and our safety
May equally determine.
Sir, I thought it fit
To send the old and miserable King
To some retention and appointed guard;
Whose age has charms in it, whose title more,
To pluck the common bosom on his side
And turn our impress'd lances in our eyes
Which do command them. With him I sent the Queen,
My reason all the same; and they are ready
To-morrow, or at further space, t' appear
Where you shall hold your session. At this time
We sweat and bleed: the friend hath lost his friend;
And the best quarrels, in the heat, are curs'd
By those that feel their sharpness.
The question of Cordelia and her father
Requires a fitter place.
Sir, by your patience,
I hold you but a subject of this war,
Not as a brother.
That's as we list to grace him.
Methinks our pleasure might have been demanded
Ere you had spoke so far. He led our powers,
Bore the commission of my place and person,
The which immediacy may well stand up
And call itself your brother.
Not so hot!
In his own grace he doth exalt himself
More than in your addition.
In my rights
By me invested, he compeers the best.
That were the most if he should husband you.
Jesters do oft prove prophets.
Holla, holla!
That eye that told you so look'd but asquint.
Lady, I am not well; else I should answer
From a full-flowing stomach. General,
Take thou my soldiers, prisoners, patrimony;
Dispose of them, of me; the walls are thine.
Witness the world that I create thee here
My lord and master.
Mean you to enjoy him?
The let-alone lies not in your good will.
Nor in thine, lord.
Half-blooded fellow, yes.
Let the drum strike, and prove my title thine.
Stay yet; hear reason. Edmund, I arrest thee
On capital treason; and, in thine attaint,
This gilded serpent.
For your claim, fair sister,
I bar it in the interest of my wife.
'Tis she is subcontracted to this lord,
And I, her husband, contradict your banes.
If you will marry, make your loves to me;
My lady is bespoke.
An interlude!
Thou art arm'd, Gloucester. Let the trumpet sound.
If none appear to prove upon thy person
Thy heinous, manifest, and many treasons,
There is my pledge!
I'll prove it on thy heart,
Ere I taste bread, thou art in nothing less
Than I have here proclaim'd thee.
Sick, O, sick!
If not, I'll ne'er trust medicine.
There's my exchange.
What in the world he is
That names me traitor, villain-like he lies.
Call by thy trumpet. He that dares approach,
On him, on you, who not? I will maintain
My truth and honour firmly.
A herald, ho!
A herald, ho, a herald!
Trust to thy single virtue; for thy soldiers,
All levied in my name, have in my name
Took their discharge.
My sickness grows upon me.
She is not well. Convey her to my tent.
Come hither, herald. Let the trumpet sound,
And read out this.
Sound, trumpet!
'If any man of quality or degree within the lists of
the army will maintain upon Edmund, supposed Earl of Gloucester,
that he is a manifold traitor, let him appear by the third sound
of the trumpet. He is bold in his defence.'
Sound!
Again!
Again!
Ask him his purposes, why he appears
Upon this call o' th' trumpet.
What are you?
Your name, your quality? and why you answer
This present summons?
Know my name is lost;
By treason's tooth bare-gnawn and canker-bit.
Yet am I noble as the adversary
I come to cope.
Which is that adversary?
What's he that speaks for Edmund Earl of Gloucester?
Himself. What say'st thou to him?
Draw thy sword,
That, if my speech offend a noble heart,
Thy arm may do thee justice. Here is mine.
Behold, it is the privilege of mine honours,
My oath, and my profession. I protest –
Maugre thy strength, youth, place, and eminence,
Despite thy victor sword and fire-new fortune,
Thy valour and thy heart – thou art a traitor;
False to thy gods, thy brother, and thy father;
Conspirant 'gainst this high illustrious prince;
And from th' extremest upward of thy head
To the descent and dust beneath thy foot,
A most toad-spotted traitor. Say thou 'no,'
This sword, this arm, and my best spirits are bent
To prove upon thy heart, whereto I speak,
Thou liest.
In wisdom I should ask thy name;
But since thy outside looks so fair and warlike,
And that thy tongue some say of breeding breathes,
What safe and nicely I might well delay
By rule of knighthood, I disdain and spurn.
Back do I toss those treasons to thy head;
With the hell-hated lie o'erwhelm thy heart;
Which – for they yet glance by and scarcely bruise –
This sword of mine shall give them instant way
Where they shall rest for ever. Trumpets, speak!
Save him, save him!
This is mere practice, Gloucester.
By th' law of arms thou wast not bound to answer
An unknown opposite. Thou art not vanquish'd,
But cozen'd and beguil'd.
Shut your mouth, dame,
Or with this paper shall I stop it.
Hold, sir.
Thou worse than any name, read thine own evil.
No tearing, lady! I perceive you know it.
Say if I do – the laws are mine, not thine.
Who can arraign me for't?
Most monstrous!
Know'st thou this paper?
Ask me not what I know.
Go after her. She's desperate; govern her.
Help, help! O, help!
What kind of help?
Speak, man.
What means that bloody knife?
'Tis hot, it smokes.
It came even from the heart of – O! she's dead!
Who dead? Speak, man.
Your lady, sir, your lady! and her sister
By her is poisoned; she hath confess'd it.
I was contracted to them both. All three
Now marry in an instant.
Here comes Kent.
Produce their bodies, be they alive or dead.
This judgement of the heavens, that makes us tremble
Touches us not with pity. O, is this he?
The time will not allow the compliment
That very manners urges.
I am come
To bid my king and master aye good night.
Is he not here?
Great thing of us forgot!
Speak, Edmund, where's the King? and where's Cordelia?
Seest thou this object, Kent?
Alack, why thus?
Yet Edmund was belov'd.
The one the other poisoned for my sake,
And after slew herself.
Even so. Cover their faces.
I pant for life. Some good I mean to do,
Despite of mine own nature. Quickly send
(Be brief in't) to the castle; for my writ
Is on the life of Lear and on Cordelia.
Nay, send in time.
Run, run, O, run!
To who, my lord? Who has the office? Send
Thy token of reprieve.
Well thought on. Take my sword;
Give it the Captain.
Haste thee for thy life.
He hath commission from thy wife and me
To hang Cordelia in the prison and
To lay the blame upon her own despair
That she fordid herself.
The gods defend her! Bear him hence awhile.
Howl, howl, howl, howl! O, you are men of stone.
Had I your tongues and eyes, I'ld use them so
That heaven's vault should crack. She's gone for ever!
I know when one is dead, and when one lives.
She's dead as earth. Lend me a looking glass.
If that her breath will mist or stain the stone,
Why, then she lives.
Is this the promis'd end?
Or image of that horror?
Fall and cease!
This feather stirs; she lives! If it be so,
It is a chance which does redeem all sorrows
That ever I have felt.
O my good master!
Prithee away!
'Tis noble Kent, your friend.
A plague upon you, murderers, traitors all!
I might have sav'd her; now she's gone for ever!
Cordelia, Cordelia! stay a little. Ha!
What is't thou say'st, Her voice was ever soft,
Gentle, and low – an excellent thing in woman.
I kill'd the slave that was a-hanging thee.
'Tis true, my lords, he did.
Did I not, fellow?
I have seen the day, with my good biting falchion
I would have made them skip. I am old now,
And these same crosses spoil me. Who are you?
Mine eyes are not o' th' best. I'll tell you straight.
If fortune brag of two she lov'd and hated,
One of them we behold.
This' a dull sight. Are you not Kent?
The same – Your servant Kent.
Where is your servant Caius?
He's a good fellow, I can tell you that.
He'll strike, and quickly too. He's dead and rotten.
No, my good lord; I am the very man –
I'll see that straight.
That from your first of difference and decay
Have followed your sad steps.
You're welcome hither.
Nor no man else! All's cheerless, dark, and deadly.
Your eldest daughters have fordone themselves,
And desperately are dead.
Ay, so I think.
He knows not what he says; and vain is it
That we present us to him.
Very bootless.
Edmund is dead, my lord.
That's but a trifle here.
You lords and noble friends, know our intent.
What comfort to this great decay may come
Shall be applied. For us, we will resign,
During the life of this old Majesty,
To him our absolute power;
You to your rights;
With boot, and Such addition as your honours
Have more than merited. – All friends shall taste
The wages of their virtue, and all foes
The cup of their deservings. – O, see, see!
And my poor fool is hang'd! No, no, no life!
Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life,
And thou no breath at all? Thou'lt come no more,
Never, never, never, never, never!
Pray you undo this button. Thank you, sir.
Do you see this? Look on her! look! her lips!
Look there, look there!
He faints! My lord, my lord!
Break, heart; I prithee break!
Look up, my lord.
Vex not his ghost. O, let him pass! He hates him
That would upon the rack of this tough world
Stretch him out longer.
He is gone indeed.
The wonder is, he hath endur'd so long.
He but usurp'd his life.
Bear them from hence. Our present business
Is general woe.
Friends of my soul, you twain
Rule in this realm, and the gor'd state sustain.
I have a journey, sir, shortly to go.
My master calls me; I must not say no.
The weight of this sad time we must obey,
Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say.
The oldest have borne most; we that are young
Shall never see so much, nor live so long.
[Return to "Shakespeare's Women" Overview]
Copyright 2002 – 2009: Ulrike Böhm, all rights reserved.