Enter GONERIL, and OSWALD, her steward 


Did my father strike my gentleman for chiding of his fool?


Yes, madam.


By day and night he wrongs me; every hour

He flashes into one gross crime or other,

That sets us all at odds: I’ll not endure it:

His knights grow riotous, and himself upbraids us

On every trifle. When he returns from hunting,

I will not speak with him; say I am sick:

If you come slack of former services,

You shall do well; the fault of it I’ll answer.


He’s coming, madam; I hear him.

Horns within


Put on what weary negligence you please,

You and your fellows; I’ll have it come to question:

If he dislike it, let him to our sister,

Whose mind and mine, I know, in that are one,

Not to be over-ruled. Idle old man,

That still would manage those authorities

That he hath given away! Now, by my life,

Old fools are babes again; and must be used

With cheques as flatteries,–when they are seen abused.

Remember what I tell you.


Well, madam.


And let his knights have colder looks among you;

What grows of it, no matter; advise your fellows so:

I would breed from hence occasions, and I shall,

That I may speak: I’ll write straight to my sister,

To hold my very course. Prepare for dinner.