ACT I — SCENE III. A Room in the Duke of Albany’s Palace

Enter Goneril and Oswald.

GONERIL.
Did my father strike my gentleman for chiding of his fool?

OSWALD.
Ay, madam.

GONERIL.
By day and night, he wrongs me; every hour
He flashes into one gross crime or other,
That sets us all at odds; I’ll not endure it:
His knights grow riotous, and himself upbraids us
On every trifle. When he returns from hunting,
I will not speak with him; say I am sick.
If you come slack of former services,
You shall do well; the fault of it I’ll answer.

[_Horns within._]

OSWALD.
He’s coming, madam; I hear him.

GONERIL.
Put on what weary negligence you please,
You and your fellows; I’d have it come to question:
If he distaste it, let him to our sister,
Whose mind and mine, I know, in that are one,
Not to be overruled. Idle old man,
That still would manage those authorities
That he hath given away! Now, by my life,
Old fools are babes again; and must be us’d
With checks as flatteries, when they are seen abus’d.
Remember what I have said.

OSWALD.
Very well, madam.

GONERIL.
And let his knights have colder looks among you;
What grows of it, no matter; advise your fellows so;
I would breed from hence occasions, and I shall,
That I may speak. I’ll write straight to my sister
To hold my very course. Prepare for dinner.

[_Exeunt._]