He went to her, and said, with a distraught air of sorrowful anger, more pathetic than mere words can describe,—
“Thy sister’s naught: O Regan! She hath tied
Sharp-toothed unkindness, like a vulture, here:
I can scarce speak to thee; thou’lt not believe
With how depraved a quality,—O Regan!”
Told by her that he was old, that in him nature stood on the verge of her confine, that he needed guidance, and had best return to Goneril and ask her forgiveness, he stood an instant in blank amazement, as if not trusting his ears; a tremor of agony and rage shot through him, fixed itself in a scornful smile, and, throwing himself on his knees, he vented his heart with superhuman irony:
“Dear daughter, I confess that I am old:
Age is unnecessary; on my knees I beg
That you’ll vouchsafe me raiment, bed, and food.”
Goneril entered. Shrinking from her partly with loathing, partly with fear, he exclaimed, in a tone of mournful and pleading pain befitting the transcendent pathos of the imagery,—