1/ Une des raisons pour lesquelles
Shakespeare est le plus grand écrivain à mes yeux est la compassion, la sympathie,
l’humanité avec laquelle il représente tous ses personnages. En conséquence, bien
que peu de détails aient filtré sur la personnalité de Shakespeare l’homme,
il n’est pas saugrenu de supposer qu’il fut lui-même un homme d’une grande sagesse,
faisant preuve de sympathie, compassion, indulgence, envers l’homme pris en général.
Car si son écriture se caractérise par son impartialité envers ses personnages envers
qui aucun jugement moral direct n’est porté ou manifeste (renforcé en cela par le
choix de la représentation théâtrale), son absence de parti pris clair et l’égal
traitement et justice donnés à chacun de ses personnages, il n’est pas déraisonnable
d’émettre l’hypothèse qu’une telle écriture n’est possible que venant de la part
d’un homme faisant lui-même preuve dans la vie, ou du moins dans sa vision de la
vie, de tolérance, d’ouverture d’esprit, d’absence de dogmatisme. Et même pour ses
personnages les plus résolument antipathiques et vils, Shakespeare, et l’écriture
théâtrale y contribue aussi, s’il n’éprouvait sans doute guère de sympathie envers
eux, s’efforce toujours de les représenter avec vraisemblance, humainement, dans
le sens où il ne les caricature jamais, leur confère une personnalité propre et
individuelle, ne porte pas de jugement moral explicite, et nous fait comprendre,
voir, leurs motivations, leurs passions humaines, bien trop humaines, si l’on peut
dire. Et si cette humanité de Shakespeare que je viens de définir est une des ses
plus grandes forces d’écriture, peut-être est-ce dans Le Roi Lear qu’elle se fait voir avec le plus de force, que l’on ressent
le plus intensément la chaleur humaine, la compassion qu’avait Shakespeare pour
l’homme et sa condition, et en particulier la misère de sa condition.
Cette compassion va bien sûr d’abord
et avant pour le protagoniste de la pièce, le roi Lear qui, au faîte de sa puissance
royale, décide d’abandonner son trône et de le léguer imprudemment à ses deux filles
aînées et ingrates, Goneril et Regan, et qui symbolise la chute, la déchéance extrême
que peut connaître l’homme dans son existence terrestre, passant de la position
la plus importante qu’il puisse avoir à la position la plus misérable possible,
seul, abandonné de tous, livré nu, tel un nourrisson sans défense, aux
intempéries et dangers extérieurs, à ses besoins essentiels insatisfaits. Mais elle
va aussi à Gloucester, miroir de Lear, victime du même aveuglement envers sa progéniture,
lui qui croit en la fidélité de son fils bâtard Edmond au détriment de son autre
fils Edgar qu’il croit félon, lui qui sera de surcroît rendu aveugle de par la cruauté
de Regan et de son mari Cornwall, et qui songera à se suicider en se jetant du
haut d’une falaise. Et plus généralement, notre sympathie va à tous les personnages
victimes de l’injustice, de la perfidie des autres, de Lear à Gloucester, en passant
par Cordelia, la fille cadette de Lear, Kent, le fidèle serviteur de Lear banni
mais qui revient déguisé pour continuer à être à son service, ou encore le Fou de
Lear, bien plus sage, tragique, mélancolique, que ne le font croire ses facéties
verbales. Et dans le même temps, notre révolte, notre dégoût vont vers ceux faisant preuve de cruauté, pour ne pas dire inhumanité, envers ceux qui dépendent d'eux ou leur sont inférieurs : Goneril et Regan bien sûr, Cornwall, les serviteurs zélés que sont Oswald, l'intendant de Goneril, le capitaine chargé d'assassiner Cordelia, et dans une moindre mesure en raison de sa mort, Edmond.
2/ Le Fou de Lear est d’une clairvoyance impitoyable envers son maître, à qui il ne cesse de faire allusion à la folie qui lui a prise de se mettre en position de soumission à ses filles ingrates, et d’avoir répudié sa fille cadette qui était la seule à l’aimer sincèrement. Sa folie, pour reprendre la formule d’Érasme, est davantage une sagesse qu’une folie débridée et incohérente, lui qui, de par sa position de fou, peut se permettre de dire toutes les vérités désagréables possibles sans être réellement inquiété, et ne cesse ainsi d’être la mauvaise conscience de Lear en lui faisant voir et revoir la folie de sa conduite. Mais il ne saurait être réduit à un rôle de moralisateur : la folie que dénonce le Fou est universelle, non pas circonscrite à son maître, brouillant les frontières entre folie et sagesse. Mais surtout, le Fou de Lear est un être beaucoup plus sensible qu’il ne paraît : nous apprenons ainsi que depuis le bannissement de Cordelia, il s’est longtemps trouvé mal physiquement, lui qui a sans doute souffert du départ de la fille de Lear à laquelle il était probablement attaché. Les tourments ironiques, quelque peu cruels, qu’il fait subir à Lear pourraient être davantage vus comme une manière détournée de lui reprocher amèrement la cruauté de l’injustice qu’il a faite à Cordelia, une manière de le punir en représailles de la douleur qu’il lui a infligée, ou de lui faire prendre conscience de cela, plutôt qu’une réelle intention de le blesser gratuitement.
3/ Lear néanmoins, malgré la grande pitié que nous finissons par ressentir pour lui, n’est pas un personnage exempt de tout reproche. Il est sous-entendu qu’il eut sans doute dans le passé un comportement aussi autoritaire et intransigeant dans sa manière de gouverner qu’il a dans le présent de la pièce, ne supportant guère la contradiction et la critique, et déterminé à n’en faire qu’à sa tête lorsqu’une résolution par lui a été prise. Son grand âge dans la pièce n’aura fait qu’aggraver ce trait de caractère. Surtout, sa manière de maudire, d’insulter ses filles aînées, quel que soit le tort que ces dernières ont bel et bien envers lui, dépasse la mesure, lui qui souhaite par exemple à Goneril les tourments d’une maternité douloureuse, ou la naissance d’un fils ingrat qui la tourmentera, voire la stérilité, emporté qu’il est par l’injustice et l’iniquité de leurs décisions à son égard.
4/ Cependant, il n’en demeure pas moins que les scènes de Lear, complètement abandonné et pris dans la tempête, lui dont Regan a barré symboliquement la porte de tout abri contre la fureur des éléments extérieurs, sont chargées d’un intense pathétique : dans Lear se trouve symbolisé la condition de l’homme seul, abandonné de tous, livré sans secours ni abri à la rigueur des forces qui lui sont adverses et hostiles, privé de tout, en proie au froid, à la faim, en somme image de la condition la plus misérable qu’un homme puisse atteindre dans son existence. De même, la scène où Gloucester veut en finir avec sa vie, regrettant l’injustice qu’il a faite à son fils Edgar, est d’une poignante émotion, bien qu’il ne coure aucun réel danger puisque son fils Edgar, déguisé et contrefaisant la voix d’un mendiant misérable à demi-fou, ne l’a pas mené au lieu souhaité et se rend compte de l’ampleur du remords qui touche son père, le prenant en sincère pitié. Edgar pourrait-on dire agit souvent en substitut du lecteur, tel le coryphée dans les pièces antiques : la pitié qui l’envahit à la vue des souffrances de Lear et de son père lui font oublier son propre déguisement et ce n’est que le cœur serré et plein de pitié qu’il parvient néanmoins à continuer à jouer son rôle de mendiant à demi-fou. Enfin, rien n’égale peut-être, dans toute la littérature, l’insoutenable émotion qui nous étreint lors de la scène concluant la pièce, où Lear espère désespérement que sa fille Cordelia ne soit pas morte : la douleur est tellement forte chez Lear qu’il croit que sa fille est peut-être encore en vie, en voyant la plume bouger ou le miroir s’embuer de par son souffle encore vivant.
5/ La mort de Cordelia, comme la mort de Desdemona dans Othello et celle d’Ophelia dans Hamlet, sont les morts les plus mémorables et émouvantes dans le répertoire de Shakespeare : elles le sont surtout car elles sont tragiques, injustes, touchant des personnes innocentes. Gratuites aussi car si la mort de Romeo et Juliet est elle aussi émouvante, elle aboutit néanmoins à la réconciliation entre les parents meurtris des héros. Alors que celles des trois femmes susmentionnées ne laissent derrière elle que la monstruosité de leur injustice, que rien ne compense ou rachète, mettant à nu comme nulle autre la manière dont la condition humaine peut être tragique, intolérablement injuste, puisque des innocents ne sont pas à l’abri, voire sont les premières victimes directes des passions déréglées et/ou viles des autres couplées à l’aveugle Fortune.
6/ Goneril et Regan sont parmi les personnages les plus vils de Shakespeare, du moins en ce qui concerne la partie féminine de ses personnages. Il est de bon aloi en effet de citer Lady Macbeth comme le personnage féminin le plus vil, maléfique, dans le sens où elle pousse son mari à assassiner le roi Duncan et affiche une résolution virile dans les préparatifs du meurtre. Mais elle se rachète, du moins partiellement aux yeux du lecteur, dans le sens où elle est par la suite tourmentée par sa conscience, matérialisée par ce sang qu’elle ne cesse de voir et de laver dans ses mains, montrant au moins un remords, certes tardif mais présent, face à son crime. Les filles aînées de Lear, elles, ne montrent guère de semblables scrupules : aucune ne cherche à revenir, ou même à atténuer, le traitement cruel qu’elles font à leur père. Et bien que l’on puisse imputer à Lear un certain entêtement quelque peu sénile, déraisonnable, dans sa volonté de conserver des prérogatives royales qu’il a de lui-même abandonnées, cela ne saurait excuser leur attitude, en particulier lorsqu’elles se rendent compte du mauvais temps qui se lève, la manière dont elles ont banni leur père de tout abri. Regan symboliquement lui barre la porte de sa demeure, alors que ses possessions lui ont été données par son père même. Par la bouche d’un personnage de la pièce, le lecteur ne peut manquer de noter qu’un tel traitement outrepasse toute mesure, et qu’on ne saurait même le réserver à quiconque, fût-ce notre ennemi ou un individu aux mœurs et au caractère peu aimables. Pire, elles sont de plus voluptueuses, envieuses, et étant toutes deux amoureuses d’Edmond, n’hésitent pas à s’affronter et à se faire du tort l’une l’autre. Goneril ira plus loin que sa sœur, elle qui toujours mariée à Albany, entend ne pas laisser sa sœur Regan, veuve après la mort de Cornwall, se marier à Edmond. Goneril tout au long de la pièce sera celle qui prendra l’initiative des mauvais traitements infligés à son père, que Regan cependant approuve et suit sans sourciller. Elle ira jusqu’à tuer sa sœur Regan en l’empoisonnant pour assouvir sa luxure.
7/ La mort des deux principaux « vilains » de la pièce, Edmond et Goneril, est cependant une des énigmes de la pièce : tous deux trompeurs, manipulateurs, prêts à toutes les extrémités pour parvenir à leurs fins, ils auront néanmoins une mort énigmatique de par leur changement inexpliqué. Ainsi Edmond surtout souhaite, alors qu’il sait qu’il va mourir de ses blessures, que Cordelia soit sauvée alors qu’il a traîtreusement ordonné son exécution à un capitaine zélé à qui il a promis un avancement considérable. Il prend même soin de donner son épée en gage pour certifier l’authenticité de l’ordre qui est transmis. Il semble, en partie, se racheter alors que rien ne le forçait à le faire. Goneril se suicide quant à elle après la mort de sa sœur Regan qu’elle vient d’empoisonner. Le contexte est néanmoins plus flou et discutable que celui dans lequel Edmond meurt : est-ce un suicide par dépit en vue de la défaite que son camp vient d’essuyer, ou remords pour la monstruosité de son acte ? Bien que la seconde hypothèse apparaisse peu vraisemblable au vu du caractère qu’elle a affiché depuis le début de la pièce, elle n’est cependant pas à exclure totalement, au vu des précédents que constituent ceux d’Edmond et Lady Macbeth.
8/ Le premier serviteur de Cornwall est un de ces personnages discrets, dont l’apparition est extrêmement brève, mais dont on peut reconstituer tout un passé et un caractère en dépit des quelques lignes qu’il a en tout, un des traits manifestes du génie de Shakespeare qui donne corps et vie à un personnage en à peine quelques répliques. Serviteur de Cornwall depuis son enfance, il s’oppose courageusement et fermement à la décision inique de son maître de crever les yeux de Gloucester. Il perçoit d’ailleurs son opposition non comme une infidélité, mais comme la chose juste à faire dans son service, pour que son maître ne se déshonore pas d’une telle cruauté. Devant l’indignation de Cornwall, il se bat contre ce dernier et le blessera mortellement, bien qu’il soit tué traîtreusement par Regan. En quelques lignes à peine, Shakespeare dresse le portrait héroïque et émouvant d’un humble serviteur qui se dresse courageusement contre ce qu’il perçoit comme une injustice, et en paie le prix de sa vie. Ce thème du devoir de fidélité du serviteur, à ne pas confondre avec la servilité qui est la flatterie aveugle de toute décision prise par le maître, fait écho à celle plus prépondérante que Kent a envers Lear, lui qui n’hésite pas non plus à dire des choses paraissant déplaisantes à son maître, mais qu’il estime justes néanmoins. Une telle fidélité est cependant dans les deux cas bien mal récompensée, l’orgueil et l’amour-propre du maître prenant le pas et l’aveuglant sur le bien-fondé de l’opposition qu’il trouve chez son serviteur, qu’il perçoit comme une désobéissance et de l’insolence.
9/ Notons la différence considérable qui sépare Cornwall et Albany, les maris respectifs de Regan et Goneril. Alors que Cornwall est un de ces hommes au tempérament orgueilleux, cruel, enivré par le pouvoir dont il est investi, obtus et borné aussi, Albany en est presque le total opposé, dans le sens où il se caractérise par une plus grande sagesse et prudence, qui confine à une sorte d’efféminisation comme le sous-entend l’insatisfaction sexuelle dont semble souffrir Goneril. Albany néanmoins semble peu énergique, trop hésitant, faible pour contrebalancer ses qualités humaines : ainsi il ne s’opposera pas fermement au bannissement de Lear par sa femme, ni ne se montre assez énergique pour cesser la guerre entre la France et l’Angleterre qui se profile. Il s’oppose à la condamnation à mort de Cordelia par les sœurs de cette dernière, mais ne peut l’empêcher, joué par Edmond. Il se hâte de prévenir la mort de Cordelia, mais oublie de s’assurer de l'exécution d'un tel ordre, ce à quoi remédie Edmond par son épée donnée en gage.
10/ L'ingratitude filiale, son côté monstrueux et dénaturé qui l’accompagne est un thème récurrent de la pièce : à celle des filles aînées de Lear fait écho celle d’Edmond qui se joue de son frère et de son père pour assouvir son ambition. Si Cordelia apparaît aux yeux de Lear, et du lecteur, comme un personnage si touchant et émouvant, c’est aussi par contraste avec l’ingratitude et cruauté de ses sœurs, bien qu’elles soient pourtant du même sang. Cette bonté de Cordelia ressort d’autant plus aussi de par la monstruosité de l’injustice que Lear lui a faite, et qui lui causera le plus profond remords, exacerbé par les remarques incessantes du Fou. Lear, honteux, n’ose plus reparaître aux yeux de sa fille aimée, bien que celle-ci ne lui en tienne guère rigueur. Enfin, la mort de Cordelia, tragique, inutile, inhumaine, achève de faire d’elle le symbole de l’injustice des châtiments retombant sur l’innocence et la vertu. De même, Gloucester se sentira coupable vis-à-vis d’Edgar pour avoir cru Edmond : d’abord décontenancé par la possibilité même de la trahison de ce fils adoré, qu’il croit à tort traître envers lui, il se repentira profondément et sincèrement lorsqu’il comprend qu’Edgar était innocent. Ce dernier, ému, le pardonnera au vu de la conscience tourmentée de son père et des souffrances qu’il dut endurer en raison de la perfidie d’Edmond, qui l’a présenté comme traître aux yeux de Cornwall pour avoir eu pitié des malheurs et souffrances de Lear.
11/ C’est au final devant les êtres les plus démunis, les plus vulnérables, que la compassion se fait la plus éclatante, la plus belle, la plus humaine, puisque rien n’oblige celui qui l’éprouve, et qu’aucun intérêt ne le pousse à le faire, si ce n’est son humanité (et une telle compassion justement dans de telles circonstances permet de mesurer le degré d’humanité, ou d'inhumanité, de celui qui la ressent, ou ne la ressent pas), et de tels exemples abondent dans la pièce : c’est celle de France qui, devant une Cordelia déchue de ses possessions par Lear, voit néanmoins sa valeur et décide de la prendre sans dot, à l’inverse de Burgundy ; c’est celle de Kent et de Gloucester face à la déchéance, aux souffrances extrêmes, physiques et psychologiques, dont Lear est la victime ; celle d’Edgar face à son père aveugle et misérable, prêt même à se suicider tant il est rongé de remords ; celle de Cordelia en apprenant le récit des malheurs de son père, maltraité et abandonné par ses sœurs, et malgré le dur traitement et injuste que son père lui a fait ; celle du serviteur de Cornwall devant le supplice inhumain que Gloucester subit. Et enfin, celle que nous ressentons devant la douleur inconsolable de Lear face à la mort de Cordelia, et toutes les circonstances qui l’entourent : son injustice passée, mais pardonnée, par sa fille ; la volonté tardive de rachat d’Edmond qui eût pu l’empêcher, à quelques minutes près ; et l’inutilité cruelle de sa mort, alors que la victoire a été au final emportée par son camp et celui de Lear, qui ne lui survivra guère après la douleur la plus forte qu’un être humain puisse avoir.
Pour tout cela, Le Roi Lear est la pièce la plus humaine, la plus émouvante, de Shakespeare, où sa compassion, son humanité, présentes de manière diffuse dans toutes ses pièces, sont les plus visibles et éclatantes. Et c’est cette qualité humaine qui, en dépit des invraisemblances qui il est vrai jalonnent la pièce, fait tout le prix et la valeur de cette pièce, mais aussi, plus largement, de son auteur.
Ci-dessous, un catalogue de citations choisies de la pièce :
This knave came something saucily to the world before he was sent for ; yet was his mother fair, there was good sport at this making, and the whoreson must be acknowledged. (I, 1)
What shall Cordelia speak ? Love, and be silent. (I, 1)
I am sure my love’s / More ponderous than my tongue. (I, 1)
Unhappy that I am, I cannot heave
My heart into my mouth. (I, 1)So young, and so untender ? / So young, my lord, and true. (I, 1)
Let it be so, thy truth then be thy dower. (I, 1)
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. Reserve thy state. (I, 1)My life I never held but as a pawn
To wage against thine enemies, ne’er fear to lose it,
Thy safety being motive. (I, 1)See better, Lear, and let me still remain
The true blank of thine eye. (I, 1)Kill thy physician, and thy fee bestow
Upon the foul disease. (I, 1)Freedom lives hence, and banishment is here. (I, 1)
The gods to their dear shelter take thee, maid,
That justly think’st, and hast most rightly said. (I, 1)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, murder, or foulness,
No unchaste action, or dishonour’d 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. (I, 1)Is it but this ? A tardiness in nature,
Which often leaves the history unspoke
That it intends to ? (I, 1)Love’s not love,
When it is mingled with regards that stands
Aloof from th’entire point. (I, 1)Peace be with Burgundy,
Since that respect and fortunes are his love,
I shall not be his wife. (I, 1)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. […]
Bid them farewell, Cordelia, though unkind :
Thou losest here a better where to find. (I, 1)I know you what you are,
And like a sister am most loath to call
Your faults as they are nam’d. […]
But yet, alas, stood I within his grace,
I would prefer him to a better place. (I, 1)Time shall unfold what plighted cunning hides ;
Who covers faults, at last with shame derides. (I, 1)You see how full of changes his age is […] he always lov’d our sister most ; and with what poor judgement he hath now cast her off appears too grossly. (I, 1)
‘Tis the infirmity of his age ; yet he hath ever but slenderly known himself. (I, 1)
Thou, Nature, art my goddess ; to thy law
My services are bound. Wherefore should I
Stand in the plague of custom and permit
The curiosity of nations to deprive me ? […]
Why bastard ? Wherefore base ?
When my dimensions are as well compact,
My mind as generous, and my shape as true
As honest madam’s issue ? Why brand they us
With base ? With baseness ? Bastardy ? Base, base ? (I, 2)Within a dull, stale, tired bed
Go to th’ creating a whole tribe of fops
Got ‘tween a sleep and wake ? (I, 2)I grow, I prosper ;
Now gods, stand up for bastards ! (I, 2)The quality of nothing hath not such need to hide itself. (I, 2)
Abhorred villain, unnatural, detested, brutish villain ; worse than brutish ! (I, 2)
He cannot be such a monster – to his father, that so tenderly and entirely loves him. Heaven and earth ! (I, 2)
These late eclipses in the sun and moon portend no good to us : though the wisdom of nature can reason it thus and thus, yet nature finds itself scourg’d by the sequent effects. Love cools, friendship falls off, brothers divide. In cities, mutinies ; in countries, discord ; in palaces, treason ; and the bond crack’d ’twixt son and father. […] We have seen the best of our time. Machinations, hollowness, treachery, and all ruinous disorders follow us disquietly to our graves. […] And the noble and true-hearted Kent banish’d ; his offence, honesty. ‘Tis strange. (I, 2)
This is the excellent foppery of the world, that when we are sick in fortune, often the surfeits of our own behaviour, we make guilty of our disasters the sun, the moon, and the stars ; as if we were villains on necessity, fools by heavenly compulsion, knaves, thieves, and treachers bu spherical predominance ; drunkards, liars, and adulterers by an enforc’d obedience of planetary influence ; and all that we are veil in, by a divine thrusting on. And admirable evasion of whoremaster man, to lay his goatish disposition on the charge of a star ! […] I should have been what I am, had the maidenliest star in the firmament twinkled on my bastardizing. (I, 2)
He comes, like the catastrophe of the old comedy. My cue is villainous melancholy, with a sigh like Tom o’Bedlam. (I, 2)
As of unnaturalness between the child and the parent, death, dearth, dissolutions of ancient amities, divisions in state, menaces and maledictions against king and nobles, needless diffidences, banishment of friends, dissipation of cohorts, nuptial breaches… (I, 2)
Whose nature is so far from doing harms,
That he suspects none. (I, 2)Idle old man
That still would manage those authorities
That he hath given away. Now, by my life,
Old fools are babes again, and must be us’d
With checks as flatteries, when they are seen abus’d. (I, 3)I can keep honest counsel […] and deliver a plain message bluntly. […] and the best of me is diligence. (I, 4)
My duty cannot be silent when I think your Highness wrong’d. (I, 4)
Since my young lady’s going into France, sir, the Fool hath much pined away. / No more of that, I have noted it well. (I, 4)
Truth’s a dog must to kennel : he must be whipp’d out, when the Lady Brach may stand by th’fire and stink. (I, 4)
Have more than thou showest,
Speak less than thou knowest. (I, 4)That lord that counsell’d thee
To give away thy land,
Come place him here by me,
Do thou for him stand,
The sweet and bitter fool
Will presently appear,
The one in motley here,
The other found out there. (I, 4)After I have cut the egg i’th’middle, and eat up the meat, the two crowns of the egg ; when thou clovest thy crown i’th’middle, and gav’st away both parts, thou bor’st thine ass on thy back o’ver the dirt. Thou hadst little wit in thy bald crown, when thou gav’st thy golden one away ; If I speak like myself in this, let him be whipp’d that first finds it so.
Fools had ne’er less grace in a year,
For wise men are grown foppish,
And know not how their wits to wear,
Their manners are so apish. (I, 4)Ever since thou mad’st thy daughters thy mothers, for when thou gav’st them the rod, and put’st down thine own breeches,
Then they for sudden joy did weep,
And I for sorrow sung,
That such a king should play bo-peep,
And go the fools among. (I, 4)I had rather be any kind o’thing than a Fool, and yet I would not be thee, nuncle ; thou hast pared thy wit o’both sides, and left nothing i’th’middle. (I, 4)
Now thou art an 0 without a figure. I am better than thou art now : I am a Fool, thou art nothing. (I, 4)
So, out went the candle, and we were left darkling. (I, 4)
Ingratitude, thou marble-hearted fiend,
More hideous when thou show’st thee in a child
Than the sea-monster. (I, 4)O most small fault,
How ugly didst thou in Cordelia show !
Which, like an engine, wrench’d my frame of nature
From the fix’d place ; drew from my heart all love,
And added to the gall. O Lear, Lear, Lear !
Beat at this gate, that thy folly in,
And thy dear judgment out. (I, 4)Hear, Nature, hear, dear goddess, hear !
Suspend thy purpose, if thou didst intend
To make this creature fruitful.
Into her womb convey sterility,
Dry up in her the organs of increase,
And from her derogate body never spring
A babe to honour her. If she must teem,
Create her child of spleen, that it may live
And be a thwart disnatur’d torment to her.
Let it stamp wrinkles in her brow of youth,
With cadent tears fret channel in her cheeks ;
Turn all her mother’s pains and benefits
To laughter and contempt : that she may feel
How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is
To have a thankless child. Away, away ! (I, 4)Life and death ! I am asham’d
That thou hast power to shake my manhood thus,
That these hot tears, which break from me perforce,
Should make thee worth them. Blasts and fogs upon thee !
Th’untented woundings of a father’s curse
Pierce every sense about thee ! Old fond eyes,
Beweep this cause again, I’ll pluck ye out
And cast you with the waters that you loose
To temper clay. (I, 4)How far your eyes may pierce I cannot tell :
Striving to better, oft we mar what’s well. (I, 4)If a man’s brains were in’s heels, were’t not in danger of kibes ? […] Then, I prithee, be merry ; thy wit shall not go slipshod. (I, 5)
Though she’s as like this as a crab’s like an apple, yet I can tell what I can tell. […] She will taste as like this as a crab does to a crab. (I, 5)
Thou canst tell why one’s nose stands i’th’middle on’s face ? […] to keep one’s eyes of either side’s nose, that what a man cannot smell out, he may spy into. (I, 5)
Why a snail has a house. […] to put’s head in, not to give it away to his daughters, and leaves his horns without a case. (I, 5)
If thou wert my Fool, nuncle, I’d have thee beaten for being old before thy time. […] Thou shouldst not have been old till thou hadst been wise. (I, 5)
A knave, a rascal, an eater of broken meats, a base, proud, shallow, beggarly, hundred-pound, filthy, worsted-stocking knave ; a lily-livered, 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, pander, and the son and heir of a mongrel bitch, one whom I will beat into clamorous whining, if thou de’st the least syllable of thy addition. (II, 2)
What a brazen-fac’d varlet art thou […]. Draw, you rogue, for, though it be night, yet the moon shines. I’ll make a sop o’th’moonshine of you, you whoreson cullionly barber-monger, draw ! […] Draw, you rascal, come your ways ! (II, 2)
Thou whoreson zed, thou unncessary letter ! […] My lord, if you will 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 ? (II, 2)
Know you no reverence ? / Yes, sir, but anger hath a privilege. (II, 2)
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’intrince t’unloose ; smooth every passion
That in the natures of their lods rebel,
Being oil to fire, snow to colder moods ;
Renege, affirm, and turn their halcyon beaks
With every gall and vary of their masters,
Knowing naught, like dogs, but following.
A plague upon your epileptic visage ! (II, 2)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. (II, 2)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. (II, 2)
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. (II, 2)Till noon ? Till night, my lord, and all night too. (II, 2)
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. (II, 2)Nothing almost sees miracles / But misery. (II, 2)
All weary and o’er-watch’d,
Take vantage, heavy eyes, not to behold
This shameful lodging. (II, 2)To take the basest and most poorest shape
That ever penury, in contempt of man,
Brought near to beast ; my face I’ll grime with filth,
Blanket my loins, elf all my hairs in knots,
And with presented nakedness outface
The winds and persecutions of the sky. (II, 2)« Poor Turlygod, Poor Tom ! »
That’s something yet : Edgar I nothing am. (II, 2)Horses are tied by the heads, dogs and bears by th’neck, monkeys by th’loins, and men by th’legs : when a man’s overlusty at legs, then he wears wooden nether-stocks. (II, 2)
They durst not do’t,
They could not, would not do’t : ‘tis worse than murder,
To do upon respect such violent outrage. (II, 2)Winter’s not gone yet, if the wild geese fly that way.
Fathers that wear rags
Do make their children blind,
But fathers that bear bags
Shall see their children kind.
Fortune, that arrant whore,
Ne’er turns the key to th’poor. (II, 2)We’ll set thee to school to an ant, to teach thee there’s no labouring i’th’winter. All that follow their noses are led by their eyes but blind men, and there’s not a nose among twenty but can smell him that’s stinking. Let go thy hold when a great wheel runs down a hill, lest it break thy neck with following. But the great one that goes upward, let him draw thee after. […]
That sir which serves and seeks for gain
And follows but for form,
Will pack when it begins to rain
And leave thee in the storm.
But I will tarry, the fool will stay,
And let the wise man fly :
The knave turns fool that runs away,
The fool no knave, perdy. (II, 2)You know the fiery quality of the duke,
How unremoveable and fix’d he is
In his own course. (II, 2)Infirmity doth still neglect all office
Whereto our health is bound ; we are not ourselves
When nature, being oppress’d, commands the mind
To suffer with the body ; I’ll forbear,
And am fallen out with my more headier will,
To take the indispos’d and sickly fit
For the sound man. Death on my state. (II, 2)O me, my heart ! My rising heart ! But down ! (II, 2)
If thou shouldst not be glad,
I would divorce me from thy mother’s tomb,
Sepulch’ring an adultress. (II, 2)Dear daughter, I confess that I am old ;
Age is unnecessary : on my knees I beg
That you’ll vouchsafe me rainment, bed, and food. (II, 2)Never, Regan.
She hath abated me of half my train,
Look’d black upon me, struck me with her tongue,
Most serpent-like, upon the very heart.
All the stor’d vengeances of heaven fall
On her ingrateful top ! (II, 2)You nimble lightnings, dart your blinding flames
Into her scornful eyes ! Infect her beauty,
You fen-suck’d fogs, drawn by the powerful sun
To fall and blister ! (II, 2)This is a slave, whose easy-borrow’d pride
Dwells in the fickle grace of her he follows. (II, 2)O heavens,
If you do love old men, if your sweet sway
Allow obedience, if you yourselves are old,
Make it your cause ! Send down, and take my part ! (II, 2)No, rather I abjure all roofs, and choose
To wage against the enmity o’th’air,
To be a comrade with the wolf and owl,
Necessity’s sharp pinch. Return with her ? […]
Persuade me rather to be slave and sumpter
To this detested groom. (II, 2)I prithee, daughter, do not make me mad.
I will not trouble thee, my child. Farewell.
We’ll no more meet, no more see one another.
But yet thou art my flesh, my blood, my daughter,
Or rather a disease that’s in my flesh,
Which I must needs call mine. Thou art a boil,
A plague-sore, or embossed carbuncle
In my corrupted blood. But I’ll not chide thee ; […]
Mend when thou canst ; be better at thy leisure ;
I can be patient, I can stay with Regan,
I and my hundred knights. (II, 2)Those wicked creatures yet do look well-favour’d
When others are more wicked. Not being the worst
Stands in some rank of praise. (II, 2)O, reason not the need ! Our basest beggars
Are in the poorest thing superfluous.
Allow not nature more than nature needs,
Man’s life is cheap as beast’s. Thou art a lady ;
If only to go warm were gorgeous,
Why, nature needs not what thou gorgeous wear’st,
Which scarcely keeps thee warm. But, for true need –
You heavens, give me that patience, patience I need.
You see me here, you gods, a poor old man,
As full of grief as age, wretched in both ;
If it be you that stirs these daughters’ hearts
Against their father, fool me not so much
To bear it tamely ; touch me with noble anger,
And let not women’s weapons, water-drops,
Stain my man’s cheeks. No, you unnatural hags,
I will have such revenges on you both
That all the world shall – I will do such things ;
What they are, yet I know not, but they shall be
The terrors of the earth. You think I’ll weep ;
No, I’ll not weep,
Storm and tempest.
I have full cause of weeping, but this heart
Shall break into a hundred thousands flaws
Or ere I’ll weep. O fool, I shall go mad. (II, 2)O, sir, to wilful men,
The injuries that they themselves procure
Must be their schoolmasters. Shut up your doors,
He is attended with a desperate train,
And what they may incense him to, being apt
To have his ear abus’d, wisdom bids fear. (II, 2) (Regan)Contending with the fretful elements ;
Bids the wind blow the earth into the sea,
Or swell the curled waters ‘bove the main,
That things might change or cease. (III, 1)Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks ! Rage, blow,
You catracts and hurricanoes, spout
Till you have drench’d our steeples, drown’d the cocks !
You sulph’rous and thought-executing fires,
Vaunt-couriers of oak-cleaving thunderbolts,
Singe my white head ! And thou, all-shaking thunder,
Strike flat the thick rotundity o’th’world,
Crack Nature’s moulds, all germens spill at once
That makes ingrateful man ! (III, 2)Here’s a night pities neither wise men nor fools. (III, 2)
Rumble thy bellyful ; spit, fire ! spout, rain !
Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire are my daughters ;
I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness.
I never gave you kingdom, call’d you children,
You owe me no subscription. Then let fall
Your horrible pleasure. Here I stand your slave,
A poor, infirm, weak, and despis’d old man ;
But yet I call you servile ministers,
That will with two pernicious daughters join
Your high engender’d battles ‘gainst a head
So old and white as this. O, ho ! ‘tis foul ! (III, 2)The codpiece that will house
Before the head has any,
The head and he shall louse ;
So beggars marry many.
The man that makes his toe
What he his heart should make,
Shall of a corn cry woe,
And turn his sleep to wake. (III, 2)There was never yet fair woman, but she made mouths in a glass. (III, 2)
Since I was man,
Such sheets of fire, such bursts of horrid thunder,
Such groans of roaring wind and rain, I never
Remember to have heard. Man’s nature cannot carry
Th’affliction nor the fear. (III, 2)Let the great gods,
That keep this dreadful pudder o’er our heads,
Find out their enemies now. Tremble, thou wretch,
That hast within thee undivulged crimes
Unwhipp’d of justice. (III, 2)The art of our necessities is strange, / That can make vile things precious. (III, 2)
He that has and a little tiny wit,
With heigh-ho, the wind and the rain,
Must make content with his fortunes fit,
Though the rain it raineth every day. (III, 2)This seems a fair deserving, and must draw me
That which my father loses : no less than all.
The younger rises when the old doth fall. (III, 3)Thou think’st ‘tis much that this contentious storm
Invades us to the skin : so ‘tis to thee ;
But where the greater malady is fix’d,
The lesser is scarce left. Thou’dst shun a bear,
But if thy flight lay toward the roaring sea,
Thou’dst meet the bear i’th’mouth. When the mind’s free,
The body’s delicate : the tempest in my mind
Doth from my sense take all feeling else,
Save what beats there, filial ingratitude.
[…] In such a night
To shut me out ? Pour on, I will endure :
In such a night as this ! O Regan, Goneril,
Your old kind father, whose frank heart gave all,
O, that way madness lies ; let me shun that ;
No more of that. (III, 4)Poor naked wretches, whereso’er you are,
That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm,
How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides,
Your loop’d and window’d raggedness, defend you
From seasons such as these ? O, I have ta’en
Too little care of this. Take physic, pomp,
Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel,
That thou mayst shake the superflux to them,
And show the heavens more just. (III, 4)Is it the fashion that discarded fathers
Should have thus little mercy on their flesh ?
Judicious punishment : ‘twas this flesh begot
Those pelican daughters. (III, 4)Is man no more than this ? Consider him well. Thou ow’st the worm no silk, the beast no hide, the sheep no wool, the cat no perfume. Ha ? Here’s three on’s are sophisticated ; thou art the thing itself. Unaccommodated man is no more but such a poor, bare, forked animal as thou art. Off, off, you lendings ! Come, unbutton me. (III, 4)
Poor Tom, that eats the swimming frog, the toad, the tadpole, the wall-newt and the water ; that in the fury of his heart, when the foul fiend rages, eats cowdung for salads […] ; who is whipp’d from tithing to tithing. (III, 4)
Our flesh and blood, my lord, is grown so vile,
That it doth hate what gets it. (III, 4)My duty cannot suffer
T’obey in all your daughters’ hard commands. (III, 4)What is your study ? / How to prevent the fiend, and to kill vermin. (III, 4)
I lov’d him, friend ;
No father his son dearer. True to tell thee,
The grief hath craz’d my wits. What a night’s this ! (III, 4)He’s mad that trusts in the tameness of a wolf, a horse’s health, a boy’s love, or a whore’s oath. (III, 6)
Her boat hath a leak
And she must not speak
Why she dares not come over to thee. (III, 6)Cry you mercy, I took you for a joint-stool. (III, 6)
Arms, arms, sword, fire ! Corruption in the place ! (III, 6)
My tears begin to take his part so much,
They mar my counterfeiting. (III, 6)The little dogs and all,
Tray, Blanch and Sweetheart, see, they bark at me. (III, 6)Poor Tom, thy horn is dry. (III, 6)
Then let them anatomise Regan ; see what breeds about her heart. Is there any cause in nature that makes these hard hearts ? (III, 6)
We’ll go to supper i’th’morning. / And I’ll go to bed at noon. (III, 6)
When we our betters see bearing our woes,
We scarcely think our miseries our foes.
Who alone suffers, suffers most i’th’mind,
Leaving free things and happy shows behind,
But then the mind much sufferance doth o’erskip
When grief hath mates, and bearing fellowship.
How light and portable my pain seems now,
When that which makes me bend makes the king bow. (III, 6)Show him this letter. The army of France is landed. Seek out the traitor Gloucester. (III, 7)
What means your graces ? Good my friends, consider
You are my guests. Do me no foul play, friends. (III, 7)By the kind gods, ‘tis most ignobly done,
To pluck me by the beard. […] Naughty lady,
These hairs which thou dost ravish from my chin
Will quicken and accuse thee. I am your host.
With robbers’ hands my hospitable favours
You should not ruffle thus. What will you do ? (III, 7)Because I would not see thy cruel nails
Pluck out his poor old eyes, nor thy fierce sister
In his anointed flesh stick boarish fangs.
The sea, with such a storm as his bare head
In hell-black night endur’d, would have buoy’d up,
And quench’d the stelled fires.
Yet, poor old heart, he holp the heavens to rain.
If wolves had at thy gate howl’d that stern time,
Thou shouldst have said « Good porter, turn the key. »
All curels else subscrib’d. But I shall see
The winged vengeance overtake such children. (III, 7)Hold your hand, my lord :
I have serv’d you ever since I was a child,
But better service have I never done you
Than now to bid you hold. (III, 7) (Un Serviteur de Cornwall)Yet better thus, and known to be contemn’d,
Than still contemn’d and flatter’d. To be worst,
The lowest and most dejected thing of Fortune,
Stands still in esperance, lives not in fear.
The lamentable change is from the best ;
The worst returns to laughter. (IV, 1)My father, poorly led ? World, world, O world !
But that thy strange mutations make us hate thee,
Life would not yield to age. (IV, 1)I have no way, and therefore want no eyes :
I stumbled when I saw. Full oft ‘tis seen,
Our means secure us, and our mere defects
Prove our commodities. Oh, dear son Edgar,
The food of thy abused father’s wrath !
Might I but live to see thee in my touch,
I’d say I had eyes again. (IV, 1)And worse I may be yet : the worst is not
So long as we can say « This is the worst. » (IV, 1)I’th’last night’s storm, I such a fellow saw,
Which made me think a man a worm. (IV, 1)As flies to wanton boys are we to th’gods ;
They kill us for their sport. (IV, 1)‘Tis the times’ plague when madmen lead the blind. (IV, 1)
Here, take this purse, thou whom the heavens’ plagues
Have humbled to all strokes. That I am wretch’d
Makes thee the happier. Heavens, deal so still !
Let the superfluous and lust-dieted man,
That slaves your ordinance, that will not see
Because he doth not feel, feel your power quickly.
So distribution should undo excess,
And each man have enough. (IV, 1)O Goneril,
You are not worth the dust which the rude wind
Blows in your face. I fear your disposition.
That nature which contemns its origin
Cannot be border’d certain in itself.
She that herself will sliver and disbranch
From her material sap, perforce must wither
And come to deadly use. (IV, 2)Wisdom and goodness to the vile seem vile ;
Filths savour but themselves. (IV, 2)Tigers, not daughters, what have you perform’d ?
A father, and a gracious aged man,
Whose reverence even the head-lugg’d bear would lick,
Most barbarous, most degenerate, have you madded.
Could my good brother suffer you to do it ?
A man, a prince, by him so benefited !
If that the heavens do not their visible spirits
Send quickly down to tame these vile offences,
It will come humanity must perforce
Prey on itself, like monsters of the deep. (IV, 2)Milk-liver’d man !
That bear’st a cheek for blows, a head for wrongs… (IV, 2)Whilst thou, a moral fool, sits still, and cries
« Alack, why does he so ? » (IV, 2)See thyself, devil :
Proper deformity shows not in the fiend
So horrid as in woman. (IV, 2)Thou changed and self-cover’d thing, for shame,
Be-monster not thy feature […] Howe’er thou art a fiend,
A woman’s shape doth shield thee. (IV, 2)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. (IV, 3)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. (IV, 3)It is the stars,
The stars above us, govern our conditions,
Else one self mate and make could not beget
Such different issues. (IV, 3)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. (IV, 3)Alack, ‘tis he : why, he was met even now
As mad as the vex’d sea, singing aloud, […]
He that helps him take all my outward worth. (IV, 4)Our foster-nurse of nature is repose. (IV, 4)
Therefore great France
My mourning and importun’d tears hath pitied.
No blown ambition doth our arms incite,
But love, dear love, and our ag’d father’s right. (IV, 4)It was great ignorance, Gloucester’s eyes being out,
To let him live. Where he arrives, he moves
All hearts against us. (IV, 5)I do remember now. Henceforth I’ll bear
Affliction till it do cry itself
« Enough, enough », and die. (IV, 6)No, they cannot touch me for coining. I am the king himself. (IV, 6)
Let copulation thrive. (IV, 6)
Behold yond simp’ring dame,
Whose face between her forks presages snow,
That minces virtue, and does shake the head
To hear of pleasure’s name.
The fitchew, nor the soiled horse, goes to’t
With a more riotous appetite.
Down from the waist they are Centaurs,
Though women all above.
But to the girdle do the gods inherit ;
Beneath is all the fiend’s.
There’s hell, there’s darkness, there’s the sulphurous pit : burning, scalding, stench, consumption. Fie, fie, fie ! pah ! pah ! Give me an ounce of civet, good apothecary, sweeten my imagination : there’s money for thee. (IV, 6)O ruin’d piece of nature ! This great world
Shall so wear out to naught. (IV, 6)I would not take this from report : it is,
And my heart breaks at it. (IV, 6)A man may see how this world goes with no eyes : look with thine ears. See how yond justice rails upon yond simple thief. (IV, 6)
And the creature run from the cur ? There thou mightst behold the great image of authority. A dog’s obey’d in office. (IV, 6)
Thou, rascal beadle, hold thy bloody hand !
Why dost thou lash that whore ? Strip thy own back ;
Thou hotly lusts to see her in that kind
For which thou whipp’st her. […]
Through tatter’d clothes great vices do appear :
Robes and furr’d gowns hide all. Plate sin with gold,
And the strong lance of justice hurtless breaks ;
Arm it in rags, a Pigmy’s straw does pierce it.
None does offend, none, I say, none. I’ll able ‘em ; (IV, 6)Thou must be patient. We came crying hither :
Thou knows’t the first time that we smell the air,
We wawl and cry. […]
When we are born, we cry that we are come
To this great stage of fools. (IV, 6)This would make a man a man of salt,
To use his eyes for garden water-pots. (IV, 6)A sight most pitiful in the meanest wretch,
Past speaking of in a king. (IV, 6)A most poor man, made tame to Fortune’s blows,
Who, by the art of known and feeling sorrows,
Am pregnant to good pity. (IV, 6)I know thee well. A serviceable villain,
As duteous to the vices of thy mistress
As badness would desire. (IV, 6)How stiff is my vile sense,
That I stand up, and have ingenious feeling
Of my huge sorrows ! Better I were distract,
So should my thoughts be sever’d from my griefs,
And woes by wrong imagination lose
The knowledge of themselves. (IV, 6)To be acknowledg’d, madam, is o’erpaid.
All my reports go with the modest truth,
Nor more nor clipp’d, but so. (IV, 7)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. (IV, 7)Mine’s enemy’s dog,
Though he had bit me, should have stood that night
Against my fire. (IV, 7)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. (IV, 7)With others whom the rigour of our state
Forc’d to cry out. (V, 1)Where I could not be honest,
I never yet was valiant. (V, 1)Men must endure
Their going hence, even as their coming hither :
Ripeness is all. (V, 2)We are not the first
Who with best meaning have incurr’d the worst. (V, 3)He that parts us shall bring a brand from heaven
And fire us hence like foxes. Wipe thine eyes :
The goodyears shall devour them, flesh and fell,
Ere they shall make us weep. We’ll see ‘em starv’d first. (V, 3)Jesters do oft prove prophets. (V, 3)
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. (V, 3)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 below thy foot,
A most toad-spotted traitor. (V, 3)What you have charg’d me with, that have I done,
And more, much more ; the time will bring it out.
‘Tis past, and so am I. But what art thou
That hast this fortune on me ? If thou’rt noble,
I do forgive thee. (V, 3)The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices
Make instruments to plague us :
The dark and vicious place where thee he got
Cost him his eyes. (V, 3)O, our lives’ sweetness,
That we the pain of death would hourly die
Rather than die at once ! (V, 3)Told the most piteous tale of Lear and him
That ever ear receiv’d ; which in recounting
His grief grew puissant, and the strings of life
Began to crack. (V, 3)Kent, sir, the banish’d Kent, who in disguise
Follow’d his enemy King, and did him service
Improper for a slave. (V, 3)Some good I mean to do,
Despite of mine own nature. (V, 3)Howl, howl, howl ! O, you are men of stones.
Had I your tongues and eyes, I’d use them so,
That heaven’s vault should crack. She’s gone for ever. (V, 3)This feather stirs, she lives : if it be so,
It is a chance which does redeem all sorrows
That ever I have felt. (V, 3)A plague upon you, murderers, traitros 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. (V, 3)If Fortune brag of two she lov’d and hated,
One of them we behold. (V, 3)All’s cheerless, dark, and deadly. (V, 3)
All friends shall taste
The wages of their virtue, and all foes
The cup of their deservings. (V, 3)And my poor fool is hang’d : no, no, no life ?
Why should a god, a horse, a rat, have life,
And thou no breath at all ? Thou’lt come no more,
Never, never, never, never, never. […]
Do you see this ? Look on her, look, her lips,
Look there, look there. (V, 3)Break, heart, I prithee, break. (V, 3)
Vex not his ghost. O, let him pass, he hates him
That would upon the rack of this tough world
Stretch him out longer. (V, 3)The wonder is he hath endur’d so long.
He but usurp’d his life. (V, 3)I have a journey, sir, shortly to go :
My master calls me, I must not say no. (V, 3)
