Reg.
I know't--my sister's: this approves her letter,
That she would soon be here.

[Enter Oswald.]

Is your lady come?

Lear.
This is a slave, whose easy-borrowed pride
Dwells in the fickle grace of her he follows.--
Out, varlet, from my sight!

Corn.
What means your grace?

Lear.
Who stock'd my servant? Regan, I have good hope
Thou didst not know on't.--Who comes here? O heavens!

[Enter Goneril.]

If you do love old men, if your sweet sway
Allow obedience, if yourselves are old,
Make it your cause; send down, and take my part!--
[To Goneril.] Art not asham'd to look upon this beard?--
O Regan, wilt thou take her by the hand?

Gon.
Why not by the hand, sir? How have I offended?