Regan. Good sir, to the purpose. [Trumpets within]
Lear. Who put my man i' the stocks?
Cornwall. What trumpet's that?
Enter Steward
Regan. I know't, my sister's; this approves her letter,
That she would soon be here.—Is your lady come?
Lear. This is a slave, whose easy-borrow'd pride
Dwells in the fickle grace of her he follows:—
Out, varlet, from my sight!
Cornwall. What means your grace?
Lear. Who stock'd my servant? Regan, I have good hope
Thou did'st not know on't.—Who comes here? O heavens,
Enter Gonerill
If you do love old men, if your sweet sway
Allow obedience, if yourselves are old,
Make it your cause; send down, and take my part!—
Art not asham'd to look upon this beard?—
[To Gonerill.]
O, Regan, wilt thou take her by the hand?