Before Gloucester’s castle.
(Kent; Oswald; Edmund; Cornwall; Regan; Gloucester; Servants)
Oswald arrives; not recognizing Kent, he takes him for one of Gloucester’s servants and asks where he can put his horse. Kent roundly insults him, and the two come to blows. Edmund attempts to stop the quarrel, but Kent turns on him. Gloucester and Cornwall appear and demand to know the cause for the fight. Kent refuses to do much more than insult Oswald, trying Cornwall’s patience until the Duke explodes and sentences Kent to the stocks. Gloucester disapproves of stocking the King’s messenger, but Cornwall is obdurate, and takes it on his own head. Gloucester apologizes to Kent, who tells him not to worry. Left alone, Kent rereads a letter he has received from Cordelia, whom he has informed of his disguise. (145 lines)
Enter Kent disguised as Caius and Steward Oswald severally.
Good dawning to thee, friend. Art of this house?
Where may we set our horses?
I’ th’ mire.
Prithee, if thou lov’st me, tell me.
I love thee not.
Why then I care not for thee.
If I had thee in Lipsbury pinfold, I would make thee care for me.
Why dost thou use me thus? I know thee not.
Fellow, I know thee.
What dost thou know me for?
A knave, a rascal, an eater of broken meats; a base, proud, shallow, beggarly, three-suited, hundred-pound, filthy worsted-stocking knave; a lily-liver’d, action-taking, whoreson, glass-gazing, superserviceable, finical rogue; one-trunk-inheriting slave; one that wouldst be a bawd in way of good service, and art nothing but the composition of a knave, beggar, coward, pandar, and the son and heir of a mungril bitch; one whom I will beat into clamorous whining, if thou deni’st the least syllable of thy addition.
Why, what a monstrous fellow art thou, thus to rail on one that is neither known of thee nor knows thee?
What a brazen-fac’d varlet art thou, to deny thou knowest me? Is it two days since I tripp’d up thy heels, and beat thee before the King? Draw, you rogue, for though it be night, yet the moon shines;
Drawing his sword.
I’ll make a sop o’ th’ moonshine of you, you whoreson cullionly barber-monger, draw!
Away, I have nothing to do with thee.
Draw, you rascal! You come with letters against the King, and take Vanity the puppet’s part against the royalty of her father. Draw, you rogue, or I’ll so carbonado your shanks! Draw, you rascal! Come your ways.
Help ho! Murder, help!
Strike, you slave! Stand, rogue, stand, you neat slave! Strike!
Help ho! Murder, murder!
Enter Bastard Edmund, with his rapier drawn.
How now, what’s the matter? Part!
With you, goodman boy, and you please! Come, I’ll flesh ye, come on, young master.
Enter Cornwall, Regan, Gloucester, Servants.
Weapons? Arms? What’s the matter here?
Keep peace, upon your lives!
He dies that strikes again. What is the matter?
The messengers from our sister and the King.
What is your difference? Speak.
I am scarce in breath, my lord.
No marvel, you have so bestirr’d your valor. You cowardly rascal, Nature disclaims in thee: a tailor made thee.
Thou art a strange fellow. A tailor make a man?
A tailor, sir; a stone-cutter or a painter could not have made him so ill, though they had been but two years o’ th’ trade.
Speak yet, how grew your quarrel?
This ancient ruffian, sir, whose life I have spar’d at suit of his grey beard—
Thou whoreson zed, thou unnecessary letter! My lord, if you’ll give me leave, I will tread this unbolted villain into mortar, and daub the wall of a jakes with him. Spare my grey beard, you wagtail?
You beastly knave, know you no reverence?
Yes, sir, but anger hath a privilege.
Why art thou angry?
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 are t’ intrinse t’ unloose; smooth every passion
That in the natures of their lords rebel,
Being oil to fire, snow to the 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 epileptic visage!
Smile you my speeches, as I were a fool?
Goose, and I had you upon Sarum plain,
I’ld drive ye cackling home to Camelot.
What, art thou mad, old fellow?
How fell you out? Say that.
No contraries hold more antipathy
Than I and such a knave.
Why dost thou call him knave? What is his fault?
His countenance likes me not.
No more, perchance, does mine, nor his, nor hers.
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 instant.
This is some fellow
Who, having been prais’d for bluntness, doth affect
A saucy 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’t, so; if not, he’s plain.
These kind of knaves I know, which in this plainness
Harbor more craft and more corrupter ends
Than twenty silly-ducking observants
That stretch their duties nicely.
Sir, in good faith, in sincere verity,
Under th’ allowance of your great aspect,
Whose influence, like the wreath of radiant fire
On flick’ring Phoebus’ front—
What mean’st by this?
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 entreat me to’t.
What was th’ offense you gave him?
I never gave him any.
It pleas’d the King his master very late
To strike at me upon his misconstruction,
When he, compact, and flattering his displeasure,
Tripp’d me behind; being down, insulted, rail’d,
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 dread exploit,
Drew on me here again.
None of these rogues and cowards
But Ajax is their fool.
Fetch forth the stocks!
You stubborn ancient knave, you reverent braggart,
We’ll teach you.
Sir, I am too old to learn.
Call not your stocks for me, I serve the King,
On whose employment I was sent to you.
You shall do small respects, show too bold malice
Against the grace and person of my master,
Stocking his messenger.
Fetch forth the stocks! As I have life and honor,
There shall he sit till noon.
Till noon? Till night, my lord, and all night too.
Why, madam, if I were your father’s dog,
You should not use me so.
Sir, being his knave, I will.
This is a fellow of the self-same color
Our sister speaks of. Come, bring away the stocks!
Stocks brought out.
Let me beseech your Grace not to do so.
His fault is much, and the good King his master
Will check him for’t. Your purpos’d low correction
Is such as basest and contemned’st wretches
For pilf’rings and most common trespasses
Are punish’d with. The King must take it ill
That he, so slightly valued in his messenger,
Should have him thus restrained.
I’ll answer that.
My sister may receive it much more worse
To have her gentleman abus’d, assaulted,
For following her affairs. Put in his legs.
Kent is put in the stocks.
Come, my good lord, away.
Exit with all but Gloucester and Kent.
I am sorry for thee, friend, ’tis the Duke’s pleasure,
Whose disposition, all the world well knows,
Will not be rubb’d nor stopp’d. I’ll entreat for thee.
Pray do not, sir. I have watch’d and travell’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!
The Duke’s to blame in this, ’twill be ill taken.
Good King, that must approve the common saw,
Thou out of heaven’s benediction 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;
“—and shall find time
From this enormous state—seeking to give
Losses their remedies.”—
All weary and o’erwatch’d,
Take vantage, heavy eyes, not to behold
This shameful lodging.
Fortune, good night; smile once more, turn thy wheel.