The French Camp, near Dover. |
|
Enter KENT and a Gentleman. |
Kent. Why the King of France is so suddenly gone back know you the reason? |
Gent. 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. |
Kent. Who hath he left behind him general? |
Gent. The Marshal of France, Monsieur la Far. |
Kent. Did your letters pierce the queen to any demonstration of grief? |
Gent. 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. |
Kent. O! then it mov'd her. |
Gent. 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. |
Kent. Made she no verbal question? |
Gent. 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' the storm? i' the night? |
Let pity not be believed!' There she shook |
The holy water from her heavenly eyes, |
And clamour-moisten'd, then away she started |
To deal with grief alone. |
Kent. It is the stars, |
The stars above us, govern our conditions; |
Else one self mate and make could not beget |
Such different issues. You spoke not with her since? |
Gent. No. |
Kent. Was this before the king return'd? |
Gent. No, since. |
Kent. Well, sir, the poor distress'd Lear's i' the town, |
Who sometime, in his better tune, remembers |
What we are come about, and by no means |
Will yield to see his daughter. |
Gent. Why, good sir? |
Kent. 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. |
Gent. Alack! poor gentleman. |
Kent. Of Albany's and Cornwall's powers you heard not? |
Gent. 'Tis so, they are afoot. |
Kent. 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. [Exeunt. |
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