[Regan plucks his beard.]

Glou.
By the kind gods, 'tis most ignobly done
To pluck me by the beard.

Reg.
So white, and such a traitor!

Glou.
Naughty lady,
These hairs which thou dost ravish from my chin
Will quicken, and accuse thee: I am your host:
With robber's hands my hospitable favours
You should not ruffle thus. What will you do?

Corn.
Come, sir, what letters had you late from France?

Reg.
Be simple-answer'd, for we know the truth.

Corn.
And what confederacy have you with the traitors
Late footed in the kingdom?

Reg.
To whose hands have you sent the lunatic king?
Speak.