To this detested groom. |[Looking on the Steward.|
Gonerill. At your choice, sir.
Lear. Now, I pr’ythee, daughter, do not make me mad;
I will not trouble thee, my child; farewell:
We’ll no more meet, no more see one another:——
But yet thou art my flesh, my blood, my daughter;
Or, rather, a disease that’s in my flesh,
Which I must needs call mine: thou art a bile,
A plague-sore, an embossed carbuncle,
In my corrupted blood. But I’ll not chide thee;