“Oh, look upon me, sir!” entreated Cordelia, with her soft voice. “And hold your hands in benediction over me. No, sir, you must not kneel.”
“Pray do not mock me,” said Lear in trembling accents. “I am a very foolish, fond old man, fourscore and upward, not an hour more or less; and, to deal plainly, I fear I am not in my perfect mind. Methinks I should know you, and know this man”—he looked round in piteous appeal—“yet I am doubtful, for I am ignorant what place this is.... Pray do not mock me, for, as I am a man, I think this lady to be my child Cordelia.”
“And so I am, I am,” cried Cordelia, the tears raining from her tender eyes.
“Are your tears wet?” said Lear, touching her cheeks softly, like a child. “Yes, faith! I pray, weep not. If you have poison for me, I will drink it. I know you do not love me, for your sisters have, as I do remember, done me wrong. You have some cause; they have not.”
“No cause, no cause,” said Cordelia.
“Am I in France?” asked Lear.
“In your own kingdom, sir,” said Kent respectfully.
“Do not abuse me,” pleaded the once haughty King.
The good doctor now interposed; he bade Cordelia be comforted: the madness was cured, but there was danger in letting the King brood over what had passed. He must not be troubled with further talking until his shaken senses were more securely settled.
“Will it please your highness walk?” asked Cordelia, with her sweet grace of manner.