Scene VII

O thou good Kent, how shall I live and work,To match thy goodness? My life will be too short,And every measure fail me.

To be acknowledged, madam, is o’erpaid.All my reports go with the modest truth;Nor more nor clipp’d, but so.

Be better suited:These weeds are memories of those worser hours:I prithee, put them off.

Pardon me, dear madam;Yet to be known shortens my made intent:My boon I make it, that you know me notTill time and I think meet.

Then be’t so, my good lord.To the Doctor. How does the king?

O you kind gods,Cure this great breach in his abused nature!The untuned and jarring senses, O, wind upOf this child-changed father!

So please your majestyThat we may wake the king: he hath slept long.

Be govern’d by your knowledge, and proceedI’ the sway of your own will. Is he array’d?

Ay, madam; in the heaviness of his sleepWe put fresh garments on him.

Be by, good madam, when we do awake him;I doubt not of his temperance.

O my dear father! Restoration hangThy medicine on my lips; and let this kissRepair those violent harms that my two sistersHave in thy reverence made!

Kind and dear princess!

Had you not been their father, these white flakesHad challenged pity of them. Was this a faceTo be opposed against the warring winds?To stand against the deep dread-bolted thunder?In the most terrible and nimble strokeOf quick, cross lightning? to watch—poor perdu!—With this thin helm? Mine enemy’s dog,Though he had bit me, should have stood that nightAgainst my fire; and wast thou fain, poor father,To hovel thee with swine, and rogues forlorn,In short and musty straw? Alack, alack!’Tis wonder that thy life and wits at onceHad not concluded all. He wakes; speak to him.

You do me wrong to take me out o’ the grave:Thou art a soul in bliss; but I am boundUpon a wheel of fire, that mine own tearsDo scald like moulten lead.

Where have I been? Where am I? Fair daylight?I am mightily abused. I should e’en die with pity,To see another thus. I know not what to say.I will not swear these are my hands: let’s see;I feel this pin prick. Would I were assuredOf my condition!

O, look upon me, sir,And hold your hands in benediction o’er me:No, sir, you must not kneel.

Pray, do not mock me:I am a very foolish fond old man,Fourscore and upward, not an hour more nor less;And, to deal plainly,I fear I am not in my perfect mind.Methinks I should know you, and know this man;Yet I am doubtful for I am mainly ignorantWhat place this is; and all the skill I haveRemembers not these garments; nor I know notWhere I did lodge last night. Do not laugh at me;For, as I am a man, I think this ladyTo be my child Cordelia.

Be your tears wet? yes, ’faith. I pray, weep not:If you have poison for me, I will drink it.I know you do not love me; for your sistersHave, as I do remember, done me wrong:You have some cause, they have not.

Be comforted, good madam: the great rage,You see, is kill’d in him: and yet it is dangerTo make him even o’er the time he has lost.Desire him to go in; trouble him no moreTill further settling.

You must bear with me:Pray you now, forget and forgive: I am old and foolish. Exeunt all but Kent and Gentleman.

My point and period will be throughly wrought,Or well or ill, as this day’s battle’s fought. Exit.