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 boona favour or request I make it, that you know me not
Till 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 up
Of this child-changed father!

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

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

Ay, madam; in the heaviness of his sleep
We 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 hang
Thy medicine on my lips; and let this kiss
Repair those violent harms that my two sisters
Have in thy reverence made!

Kind and dear princess!

Had you not been their father, these white flakes
Had challenged pity of them. Was this a face
To be opposed against the warring winds?
To stand against the deep dread-bolted thunder?
In the most terrible and nimble stroke
Of quick, cross lightning? to watch⁠—poor perdu!⁠—
With this thin helm? Mine enemy’s dog,
Though he had bit me, should have stood that night
Against 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 once
Had 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 bound
Upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears
Do 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 assured
Of 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 fondfoolish 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 ignorant
What place this is; and all the skill I have
Remembers not these garments; nor I know not
Where I did lodge last night. Do not laugh at me;
For, as I am a man, I think this lady
To 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 sisters
Have, 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 danger
To make him even o’er the time he has lost.
Desire him to go in; trouble him no more
Till 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.