Imatges de pàgina
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Enter Kent, and Steward, severally. Stew. Good dawning to thee, Friend, art of this House? Kent. Ay. Stew. Where may we set our Horses? Kent. I'ch' Mire. Stew. Prithee if thou lov'st me, tell me. Kent. I love thee not. Stew. Why then I care not for thee.

Kent. If I had thee in Lipsbury Pinfold, I would make thee care for me.

Stew, Why dost thou usę me thus ? I know thee not.
Kent. Fellow, I know thee.
Stew. What dost thou know me for?

Kent. A Knave, a Rascal, an eater of broken Meats, a base, proud, shallow, beggarly, three-suited, hundred pound, filthy Woosted-stocking Knave, a Lilly-livered, A&iontaking, whorson Glass-gazing, Super-serviceable finical Rogue, one-Trunk-inheriting Slave ; one that would it be a Bawd in way of good Service, and art nothing but the compofitìon of a Knave, Beggar, Coward, Pander, and the Son and Heir of a Mungril Bitch; one whom I will beat into clamours whining, if thou deny'st the least Syllable of thy Addition.

Stew. Why, what a monstrous Fellow art thou, thus to rail on one, that is neither known of thee, nor knows thee?

Kent. What a brazen-fac'd Varlet art thou, to deny thou knowelt me? Is it two Days fince I tript up thy Heels, and beat thee before the King? Draw you Rogue, for though it be Night, yet the Moon shines ; I'll make a Sop o'ch' Moonshine of you, you whorson Culleinly Barber

[Drawing his Sword. Stew, Away, I have nothing to do with thee.

Kent. Draw, you Ralcal; you come with Letters against the King, and take Vanity the pupper's part, against the Royalty of her Father ; draw, you Rogue, or I'll so carbonado your Shanks -draw, you Rascal, come your ways.

Stew. Help, ho! Murther ! help!

Kent. Strike you Slave; stand, Rogue, stand you neat Slave, strike.

[Beating him.

Stow.

monger, draw.

Stew. Help ho ! Murther, murther !
Enter Bastard, Cornwall, Regan, Glofter, and Servants.
Baft. How now, what's the Matter? Parte

Kent. With you, goodman Boy, if you please, come, I'll flesh ye, come on young Master.

Glo. Weapons ? Arms? what's the Matter here?

Corn. Keep Peace upon your Lives, he dies that strikes again, what is the Matter?

Reg. The Messengers from our Sister, and the King?
Corn. What is your difference ? speak,
Stew. I am scarce in breath, my Lord.

Kent. No marvel, you have so bestir'd your Valour, you cowardly Rascal, Nature disclaims all share in thee: A Tailor made thee.

Corn. Thou art a strange Fellow, a Tailor make a Man?

Kent. A Tailor, Sir? à Stone-cutter, or a Painter, could not have made him so ill, tho' they had been but two Years o'th' Trade,

Corn. Speak yet, how grew your Quarrel?

Stew. The ancient Ruffian, Sir, whose Life I have spard at sute of his gray beard

Kent. Thou whorson Zed! thou unnecessary Letter ! my Lord, if you will give

will give me leave, I will tread this unbolted Villain into Mortar, and daub the Wall of a Jakes with him, Spare my gray Beard, you wag-tail !..

Corn. Peace, Sirrah!
You beastly Knave, know you no Reverence?

Kent. Yes, Sir, but anger hath a privilege.
Corn. Why art thou angry?

Kent. That such a Slave as this should wear a Sword,
Who wears no Honesty:Such smiling Rogues as these,
Like Rats oft bite the holy Cords a-twain,
Which art t'intrince, t’unloose: Smooth every Pallion
That in the Natures of their Lords rebel,
Being Oil to Fire, Snow to their colder Moods,
Renege, affirm, and turn their Halcyon beaks,
With every gale, and vary of their Masters,
Knowing nought, like Dogs, but following:
A plague upon your Epileptick Visage,

Smile you my Speeches, as I were a Fool?
Goose, if I had you upon Sarum Plain,
I'll drive ye cackling home to Camelot.

Corn. What art thou mad, old Fellow
Glo. How fell you out, say that?

Kent. No contraries hold more antipathy,
Than I, and such a Knave.

Corn. Why dost thou call him Knave? What is his Fault?
Kent. His Countenance likes me not.
Corn. No more perchance does mine, nor his, nor hers,

Kent. Sir, 'tis my occupation to be plain,
I have seen better Faces in my time,
Than stands on any Shoulder that I see
Before me, at this inftant.

Corn. This is some Fellow,
Who having been prais'd for bluntless, doth affect
A fawcy roughness, and constrains the garb
Quite from his Nature. He cannot flatter, he,
An honest Mind, and plain, he must speak truth,
And they will take it, so; if not, he's plain.
These kind of Knaves I know, which in this plainness,
Harbour more Craft, and more corrupter Ends,
Then twenty filly ducking observants,
That stretch their Duries nicely.

Kent. Sir, in good faith, in fincere verity,
Under th’allowance of your great Aspect,
Whose influence like the wreath of radiant Fire,
Or flicking Phoebus front

Corn. What mean'st by this?

Kent. To go out of my Dialect, which you discommend so much; I know, Sir, I am no Flatterer, he that beguil'd you in a plain Accent, was a plain Knave, which for my part I will not be, though I should win your displeasure to intreat me to't.

Corn. What was th’Offence you gave him ?

Stew. I neyer gave him any :
It pleas'd the King his Master, very lately,
To strike at me upon his Misconstruction,
When he compa&, and flattering his Displeasure,
Tript me behind ; being down, insulted, rail'd,

And

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And put upon him such a deal of Man,
That worthied him, got praises of the King,
For him attempting, who was self-subdued,
And in the fleshment of this dead Exploit,
Drew on me here again.

Kent. None of these Rogues, and Cowards,
But Ajax is their Fool.

Corn. Fetch forth the Stocks.
You stubborn ancient Knave, you reverent Braggart,
We'll teach you.

Kent. Sir, I am too old to learn :
Call not your Stocks for me, I serve the King ;
On whose Imployment I was sent to you,
You shall do small R espeats, shew too bold Malice,
Against the Grace and Person of my Master,
Stocking his Messenger.

Corn. Fetch forth the Stocks;
As I have Life and Honour, there shall he fic 'till Noon.

Reg. 'Till Noon! 'till Night my Lord, and all Night too.

Kent. Why Madam, if I were your Father's Dog,
You should not use me fo.

Reg. Sir, being his Knave, I will. [Stocks brought out,

Corn. This is a Fellow of the self-fame Colour,
Our Sister speaks of. Come, bring away the Stocks.

Glo. Let me beseech your Grace, not to do so,
The King his Master needs must take it ill,
That he's so slightly valued in his Messenger,
To have him thus reftrained.
Corn. I'll answer that.

[Kent is put in the Stocks.
Reg. My Sister may receive it much more worse,
To have her Gentleman abus'd, assaulted,
Corn. Come, my Lord, away.

[Exit,
Glo. I am sorry for thee, Friend, 'tis the Duke's pleasure,
Whose Disposition all the World well knows
Will not be rubb'd nor stopt, I'll intreat for thee.

Kent. Pray do not, Sir, I have watch'd and travel'd hard,
Some time I shall sleep out, the rest I'll whistle:
A good Man's fortune may grow out at Heels;
Give you good Morrow.
Glo. The Duke's to blame in this,'cwill be ill taken. [Exit.

Kent,

Kent. Good King, that must approve the common Saw,
Thou out of Heav'ns Benedi&tion com'st
To the warm Sun.
Approach thou Beacon to this under Globe,
That by thy comfortable Beams I may
Peruse this Letter. Nothing almost sees Miracles
But Misery. I know 'tis from Cordelia,
Who hath most fortunately been inform'd
Of my obscured course. I shall find time
For this enormous State, and seek to give
Losses their Remedies. All weary and o'er-watch’d,
Take vantage heavy Eyes, not to behold
This shameful Lodging. Fortune, good Night,
Smile once more, turn thy Wheel.

[He sleeps.
Enter Edgar.
Edg. I have heard my self proclaimid,
And by the happy hollow of a Tree,
Escap'd the hunt. No Port is free, no Place
That guard, and most unusual Vigilance
Does not attend my taking. Whiles I may scape
I will preserve my self: And am bethought
To take the basest and most poorest Shape
That every penury in Contempt of Man,
Brought near to Beast: My Face I'll grime with filth
Blanket my Loins, put all my Hair in knots,
And with presented Nakedness out-face
The Winds, and persecutions of the sky.
The Country gives me proof and president
Of Bedlam Beggars, who with roaring Voices
Strike in their nummd and mortified Arms,
Pins, wooden Pricks, Nails, Sprigs of Rofemary;
And with this horrible Object, from low Farms,
Poor pelting Villages, Sheeps-coats, and Mills,
Sometimes with Lunarick Bans, sometimes with Prayers,
Inforce their Charity: Poor Turlygod, poor Tom,
That's something yet : Edgar I nothing am. [Exit.

Enter Lear, Fool, and Gentleman.
Lear. 'Tis strange that they should so depart from home,
And not send back my Messenger.

Gent. As I learn'd,
The Night before, there was no purpose in them

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