King Lear, the generous old monarch of Britain, in a spasm of parental love, bequeathes his dominion to his two daughters, Goneril and Regan, and gave nothing to the beautiful Cordelia. Hear the old man rave at his ungrateful daughters and the corrupt world:
"Ingratitude! thou marble-hearted fiend,
More hideous, when thou show'st in a child,
Than the sea monster!
Hear, nature, hear!
Dear goddess, hear! Suspend thy purpose, if
Thou did'st intend to make this creature fruitful!
Into her womb convey sterility!
Dry up in her the organs of increase;
And from her degraded body never spring
A babe to honor her! If she must teem,
Create her a child of spleen; that it may live
And be a thwart disnatured torment to her!
Let it stamp wrinkles on her brow of youth;
With falling tears fret channels in her cheeks;
Turn all her mother's pains and benefits
To laughter and contempt; that she may feel
How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is
To have a thankless child!"
Blow, wind, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow!
You cataracts, and hurricanes, spout
Till you have drenched our steeples, drowned the cocks!
You sulphurous and thought-executing fires,
Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts,
Singe my white head! And thou, all-shaking thunder,
Strike flat the thick rotundity of the world!
Crack nature's molds, all germens spill at once,
That make ingrateful men!
Rumble thy belly full! Spit fire! Spout rain!
Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my daughters;
I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness,
I never gave you kingdom, called you children,
You owe me no obedience; why then let fall
Your horrible pleasure; here I stand your slave,
A poor, infirm, weak and despised old man;
But yet I call you servile ministers,
That have with two pernicious daughters joined
Your high-engendered battles 'gainst a head
So old as this! I am a man more sinned against
Than sinning,...
Ay, every inch a King!
When I do stare, see, how the subject quakes!
I pardon that man's life; what was thy cause?
Adultery;—
Thou shalt not die; die for adultery! No!
The wren goes to it; and the small gilded fly
Does lecher in my sight.
Let copulation thrive, for Gloster's bastard son
Was kinder to his father than my daughters
Got between the lawful sheets;
To it luxury, pell-mell, for I lack soldiers.—
Behold yon simpering dame,
Whose face between her forks presageth snow;
That minceth virtue, and does shake the head
To hear of pleasure's name;
The fitchew, nor the soiled horse, goes to it
With more riotous appetite.
Down from the waist they are centaurs,
Though women all above;
But to the girdle do the gods inherit,
Beneath is all the fiends.
Through tattered clothes small vices do appear
Robes and furred gowns hide all. Plate sin with gold
And the strong lance of justice breaks;
Arm it in rags, a pigmy's straw doth pierce it!"
Prospero, the Duke philosopher and magician of the "Tempest," is my greatest conception, where I command invisible spirits to work out the fate of man, and show that love and forgiveness are the greatest attributes. Prospero is blessed with a pure and faithful daughter—Miranda, and an honorable son-in-law—Ferdinand.
"If I have too austerely punished you,
Your compensation makes amends; for I
Have given you here a thread of mine own life,
Or that for which I live; whom once again
I tender to thy hand; all thy vexations
were but my trials of thy love, and thou
Hast strangely stood the test; here afore heaven
I ratify this my rich gift. O, Ferdinand,
Do not smile at me, that I boost her off,
For thou shall find she will outstrip all praise,
And make it halt behind her.
Then, as my gift, and thine own acquisition,
Worthily purchased, take my daughter; But
If thou dost break her virgin knot before
All sanctimonious ceremonies may
With full and holy rites be ministered,
No sweet sprinkling shall the heavens let fall
To make this contract grow; but barren hate,
Sour-eyed disdain, and discord, shall beshrew
The union of your bed with weeds so loathly
That you shall hate it both; therefore, take heed
As Hymen's lamps shall light you!
You do look, my son, in a moved sort
As if you were dismayed; be cheerful, Sir;
Our revels now are ended; these our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and are
Melted into air, into thin air;
And, like the baseless fabrick of this vision
The clod-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve;
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rock behind; We are such stuff
As dreams are made of, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep!
Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes and groves;
And ye, that on the sands with fruitless feet
Do chase the ebbing Neptune, and do fly him
When he comes back; you demi-puppets, that
By moonshine do the green-sour ringlets make,
Whereof the ewe not bites; and you, whose pastime
Is to make midnight mushrooms; that rejoice
To hear the solemn curfew; by whose aid
(Weak masters though you be), I have bedimmed
The noontide sun, called forth the mutinous winds,
And 'twixt the green sea and the azured vault
Set roaring war; to the dread rattling thunder
Have I given fire, and rifted Jove's stout oak
With his own bolt; the strong based promontory
Have I made shake; and by the spurs plucked up
The pine and cedar; graves, at my command,
Have waked their sleepers; gaped, and let them forth,
By my so potent art; But this rough magic
I here abjure; and when I have required
Some heavenly music (which even now I do)
To work mine end upon their senses, that
This airy charm is for—I'll break my staff,
Bury it certain fathoms in the earth,
And deeper than did ever plummet sound
I'll drown my books!"