ple tear stole down
Her delicate cheek. It seemed she was a queen
Over her passion; who, most rebel-like
Sought to be king over her.

KENT.

O then it moved her!

GENTLEMAN.

Not to a rage.
Faith, once or twice she heaved the name of father
Pantingly forth, as if it pressed her heart,
Cried, _Sisters! sisters! Shame of ladies! Sisters!
What, i' the storm? i' the night?
Let pity not be believed._ Then she shook
The holy water from her heavenly eyes;

* * * *

Then away she started,
To deal with grief alone.

Here the last line--the image brought before us of Cordelia starting
away from observation, "to deal with grief alone," is as exquisitely
beautiful as it is characteristic.

But all the passages hitherto quoted must yield in beauty and power to
that scene, in which her poor father recognizes her, and in the
intervals of distraction asks forgiveness of his wronged child. The
subdued pathos and simplicity of Cordelia's character, her quiet but
intense feeling, the misery and humiliation of the bewildered old man,
are brought before us in so few words, and at the same time sustained
with such a deep intuitive knowledge of the innermost workings of the
human heart, that as there is nothing surpassing this scene in
Shakspeare himself, so there is nothing that can be compared to it in
any other writer.

CORDELIA.

How does my royal lord? How fares your majesty?

LEAR.

You do me wrong to take me out of the grave.
Thou art a soul in bliss; but I am bound
Upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears
Do scald like molten lead.

CORDELIA.

Sir, do you know me?

LEAR.

You are a spirit, I know: when did you die?

CORDELIA.

Still, still far wide!

PHYSICIAN.

He's scarce awake: let him alone awhile.

LEAR.

Where have I been? Where am I? Fair daylight!
I am mightily abused. I should even die with pity
To see another thus. I know not what to say.
I will not swear these are my hands: Let's see.
I feel this pin prick. Would I were assured
Of my condition.

CORDELIA.