REGAN.
O the blest gods!
So will you wish on me when the rash mood is on.
LEAR.
No, Regan, thou shalt never have my curse:
Thy tender-hefted nature shall not give
Thee o'er to harshness: her eyes are fierce; but thine
Do comfort, and not burn. 'Tis not in thee
To grudge my pleasures, to cut off my train,
To bandy hasty words, to scant my sizes,
And, in conclusion, to oppose the bolt
Against my coming in: thou better know'st
The offices of nature, bond of childhood,
Effects of courtesy, dues of gratitude;
Thy half o' the kingdom hast thou not forgot,
Wherein I thee endow'd.
REGAN.
Good sir, to the purpose.
LEAR.
Who put my man i' the stocks?
[Tucket within.]
CORNWALL.
What trumpet's that?
REGAN.
I know't — my sister's: this approves her letter,
That she would soon be here.
[Enter Oswald.]
Is your lady come?
LEAR.
This is a slave, whose easy-borrowed pride
Dwells in the fickle grace of her he follows. —
Out, varlet, from my sight!
CORNWALL.
What means your grace?
