inform'd them so. Inform'd them! Dost thou understand me, man? Ay, my good lord. The king would speak with Cornwall; the dear father Would with his daughter speak, commands her service: Are they inform'd of this? My breath and blood! Fiery? the fiery duke? Tell the hot duke that-- No, but not yet: may be he is not well: Infirmity doth still neglect all office Whereto our health is bound; we are not ourselves When nature, being oppress'd, commands the mind To suffer with the body: I'll forbear; And am fall'n out with my more headier will, To take the indisposed and sickly fit For the sound man. Death on my state! wherefore Should he sit here? This act persuades me That this remotion of the duke and her Is practise only. Give me my servant forth. Go tell the duke and 's wife I'ld speak with them, Now, presently: bid them come forth and hear me, Or at their chamber-door I'll beat the drum Till it cry sleep to death. I would have all well betwixt you. O me, my heart, my rising heart! but, down! Cry to it, nuncle, as the cockney did to the eels when she put 'em i' the paste alive; she knapped 'em o' the coxcombs with a stick, and cried 'Down, wantons, down!' 'Twas her brother that, in pure kindness to his horse, buttered his hay. Good morrow to you both. Hail to your grace! I am glad to see your highness. Regan, I think you are; I know what reason I have to think so: if thou shouldst not be glad, I would divorce me from thy mother's tomb, Sepulchring an adultress. O, are you free? Some other time for that. Beloved Regan, Thy sister's naught: O Regan, she hath tied Sharp-tooth'd unkindness, like a vulture, here: I can scarce speak to thee; thou'lt not believe With how depraved a quality--O Regan! I pray you, sir, take patience: I have hope. You less know how to value her desert Than she to scant her duty. Say, how is that? I cannot think my sister in the least Would fail her obligation: if, sir, perchance She have restrain'd the riots of your followers, 'Tis on such ground, and to such wholesome end, As clears her from all blame. My curses on her! O, sir, you are old. Nature in you stands on the very verge Of her confine: you should be ruled and led By some discretion, that discerns your state Better than you