Original Text
*Enter Goneril, Edmund, and Oswald.* GONERIL. Welcome, my lord. I marvel our mild husband Not met us on the way. — Now, where's your master? OSWALD. Madam, within, but never man so changed: I told him of the army that was landed; He smiled at it. I told him you were coming, His answer was, "the worse." Of Gloucester's treachery, And of the loyal service of his son When I informed him, then he called me sot, And told me I had turned the wrong side out: What most he should dislike, seems pleasant to him; What like, offensive.
Original Text
GONERIL. Then shall you go no further. It is the cowish terror of his spirit That dares not undertake: he'll not feel wrongs Which tie him to an answer. Our wishes on the way May prove effects. Back, Edmund, to my brother; Hasten his musters, and conduct his powers. I must change names at home, and give the distaff Into my husband's hands.
Original Text
This trusty servant Shall pass between us: ere long you are like to hear, If you dare venture in your own behalf, A mistress's command. Wear this; spare speech. *She gives him a favour.* Decline your head. This kiss, if it durst speak, Would stretch thy spirits up into the air: Conceive, and fare thee well. EDMUND. Yours in the ranks of death. *Exit Edmund.*
Original Text
GONERIL. My most dear Gloucester! Oh, the difference of man, and man! To thee a woman's services are due; My fool usurps my body. OSWALD. Madam, here comes my lord. *Enter Albany.*
Original Text
GONERIL. I have been worth the whistle. ALBANY. O Goneril, You are not worth the dust which the rude wind Blows in your face.
Original Text
GONERIL. Milk-livered man, That bear'st a cheek for blows, a head for wrongs, Who hast not in thy brows an eye discerning Thine honour, from thy suffering.
Original Text
ALBANY. See thyself, devil: Proper deformity seems not in the fiend So horrid as in woman. GONERIL. O vain fool! *Enter a Messenger.*
Original Text
MESSENGER. O my good lord, the Duke of Cornwall's dead, Slain by his servant, going to put out The other eye of Gloucester. ALBANY. Gloucester's eyes!
Original Text
MESSENGER. A servant that he bred, thrilled with remorse, Opposed against the act: bending his sword To his great master, who, thereat enraged, Flew on him, and amongst them felled him dead, But not without that harmful stroke, which since Hath plucked him after.
Original Text
ALBANY. This shows you are above, You justices, that these our nether crimes So speedily can venge. But, O poor Gloucester, Lost he his other eye? MESSENGER. Both, both, my lord. This letter, madam, craves a speedy answer; 'Tis from your sister.
Original Text
GONERIL. *(aside)* One way I like this well. But being widow, and my Gloucester with her, May all the building in my fancy pluck Upon my hateful life. Another way The news is not so tart. — I'll read, and answer. *Exit.*
Original Text
ALBANY. Where was his son, When they did take his eyes? MESSENGER. Come with my lady hither. ALBANY. He is not here. MESSENGER. No, my good lord; I met him back again.
Original Text
ALBANY. Knows he the wickedness? MESSENGER. Ay, my good lord; 'twas he informed against him, And quit the house on purpose, that their punishment Might have the freer course. ALBANY. Gloucester, I live To thank thee for the love thou showed'st the King, And to revenge thine eyes. Come hither, friend; Tell me what more thou know'st. *Exeunt.*