her Father: draw you Rogue, or Ile so carbonado your shanks, draw you Rascall, come your waies.

Ste. Helpe, ho, murther, helpe.

Kent. Strike you slave: stand rogue, stand you neat slave, strike.

Stew. Helpe hoa, murther, murther.

Enter Bastard, Cornewall, Regan, Gloster, Servants.

Bast. How now, what's the matter? Part.

Kent. With you goodman Boy, if you please, come, Ile flesh ye, come on yong Master.

Glo. Weapons? Armes? what's the matter here?

Cor. Keepe peace upon your lives, he dies that strikes againe, what is the matter?

Reg. The Messengers from our Sister, and the King.
Cor. What is your difference, speake?

Stew. I am scarce in breath my Lord.

Kent. No Marvell, you have so bestir'd your valour, you cowardly Rascall, nature disclaimes in thee: a Taylor made thee. Cor. Thou art a strange fellow, a Taylor make a man?

Kent. A Taylor Sir, a Stone-cutter, or a Painter, could not have made him so ill, though they had bin but two yeares oth'trade.

Cor. Speake yet, how grew your quarrell?

Ste. This ancient Ruffian Sir, whose life I have spar'd at sute of his gray-beard.

Kent. Thou whoreson Zed, thou unnecessary letter: my Lord, if you will give me leave, I will tread this unboulted villaine into morter, and daube the wall of a Jakes with him. Spare my greybeard, you wagtaile?

Cor. Peace sirrah,

You beastly knave, know you no reverence?

Kent. Yes Sir, but anger hath a priviledge.

Cor. Why art thou angrie ?

Kent. That such a slave as this should weare a Sword,

Who weares no honesty: such smiling rogues as these,
Like Rats oft bite the holy cords a twaine,

Which are t'intrince, t'unloose: smooth every passion
That in the natures of their Lords rebell,
Being oile to fire, snow to the colder moodes,
Revenge, affirme, and turne their Halcion beakes
With every gall, and varly of their Masters,
Knowing naught (like dogges) but following:
A plague upon your Epilepticke visage,
Smoile you my speeches, as I were a Foole?
Goose, if I had you upon Sarum Plaine,
I'ld drive ye cackling home to Camelot.
Corn. What art thou mad old Fellow?
Glost. How fell you out, say that?
Kent. No contraries hold more antipathy,
Then I, and such a knave.

Corn. Why do'st thou call him Knave?
What is his fault?

Kent. His countenance likes me not.

Cor. No more perchance do's mine, nor his, nor hers. Kent. Sir, 'tis my occupation to be plaine,

I have seene better faces in my time,

Then stands on any shoulder that I see

Before me, at this instant.

Corn.

This is some Fellow,

Who having beene prais'd for bluntnesse, doth affect

A

saucy roughnes, and constraines the garb

Quite from his Nature. He cannot flatter he,

An honest mind and plaine, he must speake truth,

And they will take it so, if not, hee's plaine.

These kind of Knaves I know, which in this plainnesse Harbour more craft, and more corrupter ends,

Then twenty silly ducking observants,

That stretch their duties nicely.

Kent. Sir, in good faith, in sincere verity,

Under th'allowance of your great aspect,

Whose influence like the wreath of radient fire

On flicking Phebus 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 beguild you in a plaine accent, was a plaine Knave, which for my part I will not be, though I should win your displeasure to entreat me too't. Corn. What was th'offence you gave him?

Ste. 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
Tript me behind: being downe, insulted, rail'd,
And put upon him such a deale of Man,
That worthied him, got praises of the King,
For him attempting, who was selfe-subdued,
And in the fleshment of this dead exploit,

Drew on me here againe.

Call not your Stocks for me, I serve the King.

On whose imployment I was sent to you,

You shall doe small respects, show 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 sit till Noone.
Reg. Till noone? till night my Lord, and all night too.
Kent. Why Madam, if I were your Fathers dog,

You should not use me so.

Reg. Sir, being his Knave, I will.

Stocks brought out.

Cor. This is a fellow of the selfe same colour,

Our Sister speakes 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 so slightly valued in his Messenger,
Should have him thus restrained.

Cor.

Ile answere that.

Reg. My Sister may receive it much more worsse,

To have her Gentleman abus'd, assaulted.

Corn, Come my Lord, away.

Glo. I am sorry for thee friend, 'tis the Duke pleasure,

Whose disposition all the world well knowes

Will not be rub'd nor stopt, Ile entreat for thee.

Kent. Pray do not Sir, I have watch'd and travail'd hard,

Some time I shall sleepe out, the rest Ile whistle.

A good mans fortune may grow out at heeles:

Give you good morrow.

Glo. The Duke's too blame in this,

'Twill be ill taken.

Kent. Good King, that must approve the common saw,

Thou out of Heavens benediction com'st

To the warme Sun.

Approach thou Beacon to this under Globe,

That by thy comfortable Beames I may

Peruse this Letter. Nothing almost sees miracles
But miserie. I know 'tis from Cordelia,
Who hath most fortunately beene inform'd
Of my obscured course. And shall finde time
From this enormous State, seeking to give
Losses their remedies. All weary and o're-watch'd,
Take vantage heavie eyes, not to behold

This shamefull lodging. Fortune goodnight,
Smile once more, turne thy wheele.

Exit.

Exit.

Enter Edgar.

Edg. I heard my selfe proclaim'd,

And by the happy hollow of a Tree,

Escap'd the hunt. No Port is free, no place
That guard, and most unusall vigilance

Do's not attend my taking. Whiles I may scape
I will preserve myselfe: and am bethought
To take the basest, and most poorest shape
That ever penury in contempt of man,

Brought neere to beast; my face Ile grime with filth,
Blanket my loines, elfe all my haires in knots,
And with presented nakednesse out-face
The Windes, and persecutions of the skie;
The Country gives me proofe, and president
Of Bedlam beggers, who with roaring voices,
Strike in their num'd and mortified Armes.

Pins, Wodden-prickes, Nayles, Sprigs of Rosemarie :
And with this horrible object, from low Farmes,
Poore pelting Villages, Sheeps-Coates, and Milles,
Sometimes with Lunaticke bans, sometime with Praiers
Inforce their charitie: poore Turlygod, poore Tom,
That's something yet: Edgar I nothing am.

Enter Lear, Foole, and Gentleman.

Lea. 'Tis strange that they should so depart from home, And not send backe my Messengers.

Gent.

As I learn'd,

The night before, there was no purpose in them

Of this remove.

Kent.

Lear. Ha?

Kent. No my

Haile to thee Noble Master.

Mak'st thou this shame thy pastime ?
Lord.

Exit.

Foole. Hah, ha, he weares Cruell Garters Horses are tide by the heads, Dogges and Beares by'th'necke, Monkies by'th'