Afterwards, feeling perhaps not well himself, he is inclined to admit their excuse from illness, but then recollecting that they have set his messenger (Kent) in the stocks, all his suspicions are roused again, and he insists on seeing them.

Enter Cornwall, Regan, Gloster, and Servants.

Lear.  Good-morrow to you both.

Cornwall.  Hail to your grace!

[Kent is set at liberty.]

Regan.  I am glad to see your highness.

Lear.  Regan, I think you are; I know what reason
I have to think so; if thou should’st not be glad,
I would divorce me from thy mother’s tomb,
Sepulch’ring an adultress.—­O, are you free?
[To Kent.]
Some other time for that.—­Beloved Regan,
Thy sister’s naught:  O Regan, she hath tied
Sharp-tooth’d unkindness, like a vulture, here—­
[Points to his heart.]
I can scarce speak to thee; thou’lt not believe,
Of how deprav’d a quality—­o Regan!

Regan.  I pray you, sir, take patience; I have hope
You less know how to value her desert,
Than she to scant her duty.

Lear.  Say, how is that?

Regan.  I cannot think my sister in the least
Would fail her obligation; if, sir, perchance,
She have restrain’d the riots of your followers,
’Tis on such ground, and to such wholesome end,
As clears her from all blame.

   Lear.  My curses on her!

   Regan.  O, sir, you are old;
     Nature in you stands on the very verge
     Of her confine:  you should be rul’d, and led
     By some discretion, that discerns your state
     Better than you yourself:  therefore, I pray you,
     That to our sister you do make return;
     Say, you have wrong’d her, sir.

   Lear.  Ask her forgiveness? 
     Do you but mark how this becomes the use? 
     Dear daughter, I confess that I am old;
     Age is unnecessary; on my knees I beg,
     That you’ll vouchsafe me raiment, bed, and food.

   Regan.  Good sir, no more; these are unsightly tricks: 
     Return you to my sister.

   Lear.  Never, Regan: 
     She hath abated me of half my train;
     Look’d blank upon me; struck me with her tongue,
     Most serpent-like, upon the very heart:—­
     All the stor’d vengeances of heaven fall
     On her ungrateful top!  Strike her young bones,
     You taking airs, with lameness!

   Cornwall.  Fie, sir, fie!

   Lear:  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 blast her pride!

   Regan.  O the blest gods! 
     So will you wish on me, when the rash mood is on.