Let it stamp wrinkles in her brow of youth;
With cadent tears fret channels in her cheeks;
Turn all her mother's pains and benefits
To laughter and contempt; that she may feel
How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is
To have a thankless child!--Away, away!

[Exit.]

Alb.
Now, gods that we adore, whereof comes this?

Gon.
Never afflict yourself to know more of it;
But let his disposition have that scope
That dotage gives it.

[Re-enter Lear.]

Lear.
What, fifty of my followers at a clap!
Within a fortnight!

Alb.
What's the matter, sir?

Lear.
I'll tell thee.--Life and death!--[To Goneril] I am asham'd
That thou hast power to shake my manhood thus;
That these hot tears, which break from me perforce,