LEAR I prithee, daughter, do not make me mad. I will not trouble thee, my child. Farewell. We’ll no more meet, no more see one another. But yet thou art my flesh, my blood, my daughter – Or rather a disease that’s in my flesh, Which I must needs call mine. Thou art a boil, A plague-sore, or embossed carbuncle, 220 In my corrupted blood. But I’ll not chide thee. Let shame come when it will, I do not call it.
