Lear: I prithee, 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 boil, A plague-sore, or embossèd carbuncle In my corrupted blood. But I'll not chide thee. Let shame come when it will, I do not call it. I do not bid the Thunder-Bearer shoot, Nor tell tales of thee to high-judging Jove. I can be patient. I can stay with Regan, I and my hundreds knights. (查看原文)
This is the excellent foppery of the world, that, when we are sick in fortune, often the surfeit of our own behaviour, we make guilty of our disasters the sun, the moon, and the stars; as if we were villains on necessity; fools by heavenly compulsion; knaves, thieves, and treachers by spherical pre-dominance; drunkards, liars, and adulterers by an enforced obedience of planetary influence; and all that we are evil in, by a divine thrusting on. An admirable evasion of whore-master man, to lay his goatish disposition to the charge of a star! My father compounded with my mother under the Dragon's Tail, and my nativity was under Ursa Major, so that it follows I am rough and lecherous. Fut! I should have been that I am, had the maidenliest star in the firmament twinkled on my bastardizing.
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Regan: I pray you, father, being weak, seem so. If till the expiration of your month you will return and sojourn my sister, Dismissing half your train, come then to me, I am now from home, and out of that provision Which shall be needful for your entertainment. (查看原文)
