CORDELIA.
Be better suited,
These weeds are memories of those worser hours:
I prithee put them off.
KENT.
Pardon, dear madam;
Yet to be known shortens my made intent.
My boon I make it that you know me not
Till time and I think meet.
CORDELIA.
Then be’t so, my good lord. [To the Physician.] How does the King?
PHYSICIAN.
Madam, sleeps still.
CORDELIA.
O you kind gods,
Cure this great breach in his abused nature!
The untun’d and jarring senses, O, wind up
Of this child-changed father.
PHYSICIAN.
So please your majesty
That we may wake the King: he hath slept long.
CORDELIA.
Be govern’d by your knowledge, and proceed
I’ the sway of your own will. Is he array’d?
PHYSICIAN.
Ay, madam. In the heaviness of sleep
We put fresh garments on him.
Be by, good madam, when we do awake him;
I doubt not of his temperance.
CORDELIA.
Very well.
PHYSICIAN.
Please you draw near. Louder the music there!