That glib and oily art

King of France. This is most strange,
That she that even but now was your best object,
The argument of your praise, balm of your age,
Most best, most dearest, should in this trice of time {235}

Lear by Leadfoot
Lear by Leadfoot

Commit a thing so monstrous to dismantle
So many folds of favour. Sure her offence
Must be of such unnatural degree
That monsters it, or your fore-vouch’d affection
Fall’n into taint; which to believe of her 240
Must be a faith that reason without miracle
Should never plant in me.

Cordelia. I yet beseech your Majesty,
If for I want that glib and oily art
To speak and purpose not, since what I well intend, {245}
I’ll do’t before I speak- that you make known
It is no vicious blot, murther, or foulness,
No unchaste action or dishonoured step,
That hath depriv’d me of your grace and favour;
But even for want of that for which I am richer- 250
A still-soliciting eye, and such a tongue
As I am glad I have not, though not to have it
Hath lost me in your liking.

Lear.

Better thou
Hadst not been born than not t’ have pleas’d me better. {255}