Be fear'd of doing harm: make your own purpose,
How in my strength you please.-For you, Edmund,
Whofe virtue and obedience doth this instant

So much commend itself, you shall be ours;
Natures of fuch deep trust we shall much need;
You we firft feize on.

Edm.

1 fhall ferve you, fir,

Truly, however else.

Glo.

For him I thank your grace.

Corn. You know not why we came to vifit you,

Reg. Thus out of feafon; threading dark-ey'd night. Occafions, noble Glofter, of some póize,

Wherein we must have use of your advice :

Our father he hath writ, fo hath our fifter,

Of differences, which I beft thought it fit
To answer from our home; the several meffengers
From hence attend despatch. Our good old friend,
Lay comforts to your bofom; and bestow

Your needful counsel to our business,

Which craves the inftant use.

Glo.

I ferve you, madam :

[Exeunt.

Your graces are right welcome.

SCENE II.

Before GLOSTER's Caftle.

Enter KENT and Steward, feverally.

Stew. Good dawning to thee, friend: Art of the house? Kent. Ay.

Stew. Where may we fet our horses?

Kent. I' the mire.

Stew, Pr'ythee, if thou love me, tell me.

Kent. I love thee not.

Stew. Why, then I care not for thee.

Kent.

Kent. If I had thee in Lipsbury pinfold, I would make thee care for me.

Stew. Why doft thou use me thus? I know thee not. Kent. Fellow, I know thee.

Stew. What doft thou know me for?

Kent. A knave; a rafcal, an eater of broken meats; a bafe, proud, shallow, beggarly, three-fuited, hundredpound, filthy worsted-stocking knaye; a lily-liver'd, action-taking knave; a whorfon, glafs-gazing, fuperferviceable, finical rogue; one-trunk-inheriting flave; one that would'st be a bawd, in way of good service, and art nothing but the compofition of a knave, beggar, coward, pandar, and the fon and heir of a mongrel bitch: one whom I will beat into clamorous whining, if thou deny'st the least fyllable of thy addition.

Stew. Why, what a monftrous fellow art thou, thus to rail on one, that is neither known of thee, nor knows thee?

Kent. What a brazen-faced varlet art thou, to deny thou know'ft me? Is it two days ago, fince I tripp'd up thy heels, and beat thee, before the king? Draw, you rogue: for, though it be night, the moon fhines; I'll make a sop o' the moonshine of you: Draw, you whorfon cullionly barber-monger, draw. [drawing his fword. Stew. Away; I have nothing to do with thee.

Kent. Draw, you rafcal: you come with letters against the king; and take vanity the puppet's part, against the royalty of her father: Draw, you rogue, or I'll fo carbonado your fhanks :-draw, you rafcal; come your ways, Stew. Help, ho! murder! help!

Kent, Strike, you flave; stand, rogue, stand; you neat flave, ftrike. [beating him.

Stew, Help ho! murder! murder!

Enter EDMUND, CORNWALL, REGAN, GLOSTER, and

Servants.

Edm. How now? What's the matter? Part.

Kent. With you, goodman boy, if you pleafe; come, I'll flesh you; come on, young master.

Glo. Weapons! arms! What's the matter here?
Corn. Keep peace, upon your lives;

He dies, that ftrikes again: What is the matter?
Reg. The meffengers from our fifter and the king.
Corn. What is your difference? speak.

Stew. I am fcarce in breath, my lord.

Kent. No marvel, you have fo beftir'd your valour. You cowardly rascal, nature disclaims in thee; a tailor made thee.

Corn. Thou art a strange fellow: a tailor make a man? Kent. Ay, a tailor, fir: a stone-cutter, or a painter, could not have made him fo ill, though they had been but two hours at the trade.

Corn. Speak yet, how grew your quarrel?

Stew. I his ancient ruffian, fir, whofe life I have spar'd, At fuit of his grey beard,—

Kent. Thou whorfon zed! thou unneceffary letter!— My lord, if you will give me leave, I will tread this unbolted villain into mortar, and daub the wall of a jakeş with him.--Spare my grey beard, you wagtail?

Corn. Peace, firrah!

You beaftly knave, know you no reverence?

Kent. Yes, fir; but anger has a privilege.

Corn. Why art thou angry?

Kent. That fuch a flave as this fhould wear a fword, Who wears no honesty. Such fmiling rogues as these, Like rats, oft bite the holy cords in twain

Which are too intrinfe t'unloose: fmooth every paffion

That

That in the natures of their lords rebels;

Bring oil to fire, fnow to their colder moods;
Renege, affirm, and turn their halcyon beaks
With every gale and vary of their masters,
As knowing nought, like dogs, but following.-
A plague upon your epileptick visage!
Smile you my speeches, as I were a fool ?
Goose, if I had you upon Sarum plain,

I'd drive ye cackling home to Camelot.
Corn. What, art thou mad, old fellow?

Glo.

Say that.

How fell you out?

Kent. No contraries hold more antipathy,

Than I and fuch a knave.

Corn. Why doft thou call him knave? What's his offence?

Kent. His countenance likes me not.

Corn. No more, perchance, does mine, or his, or hers. Kent. 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 inftant.

Corn.

This is fome fellow,

Who, having been prais'd for bluntness, doth affect

A faucy roughness; and constrains the garb,
Quite from his nature: He cannot flatter, he!-
An honest mind and plain,-he muft speak truth:

And they will take it, so; if not, he's plain.

These kind of knaves I know, which in this plainness Harbour more craft, and more corrupter ends,

Than twenty filly ducking obfervants,

That stretch their duties nicely.

Kent. Sir, in good footh, in fincere verity, Under the allowance of your grand aspéct,

Whose influence, like the wreath of radiant fire
On flickering Phoebus' front,-

Corn.

What mean'ft by this? Kent. To go out of my dialect, which you difcommend fo much. Į know, fir, I am no flatterer: he that beguiled you, in a plain accent, was a plain knave; which, for my part, I will not be, though I should win your displeasure to entreat me to it.

Corn. What was the offence you gave him?

Stew.

Never any? It pleas'd the king his master, very late,

To strike at me, upon his misconstruction;

When he, conjunct, and flattering his difpleasure,
Tripp'd me behind; being down, infulted, rail'd,
And put upon him such a deal of man,
That worthy'd him, got praises of the king
For him attempting who was felf-subdu’d;
And, in the fleshment of this dread exploit,
Drew on me here.

Kent.

None of these rogues, and cowards,

But Ajax is their fool.

Corn.

Fetch forth the stocks, ho! You ftubborn ancient knave, you reverend braggart,

We'll teach you

Kent.
Sir, I am too old to learn;
Call not your stocks for me: I serve the king;
On whofe employment I was fent to you:
You fhall do fmall respect, show too bold malice
Against the grace and person of my master,
Stocking his messenger.

Corn.

Fetch forth the ftocks:

As I've life and honour, there fhall he fit till noon.

Reg. Till noon! till night, my lord; and all night

too,

Kent.