Tragedies often explore fundamental human flaws, showing how they can lead to ironic and devastating consequences. The greatest tragedies invite readers to reflect and draw their own conclusions. This essay offers an interpretation of Shakespeare's King Lear, focusing on the human tendency to conflate desires about the world with beliefs about the world.
To understand this reinterpretation, let's first define some key terms. At the heart of any action lies agency, which requires two essential components: beliefs and desires. These two terms will be used with more precise meanings in this essay than their everyday use. Beliefs are propositions a person holds true about reality—their understanding of what the world is, including themselves. A person’s beliefs collectively form their understanding of the world, i.e. their worldview. Desires, on the other hand, stem from imagination—they represent what the person wants the world to become. Without desires, the person would have no motivation to act; without beliefs, they wouldn't know how to achieve their desires. We can think of agency like this: an agent, using their beliefs (understanding of the world, or, worldview), decides how to act to make the world align with their desires. The accuracy of beliefs, i.e. how close they resemble reality, directly affect how successful a person can act to achieve desires. When an agent conflates their desires with their beliefs—mistaking what they want to be true for what is true—they fall into self-deception. When a person’s worldview is corrupted by such false beliefs, it will also misguided their actions, leading to consequences unexpected by them. As a clarification, one of the everyday usages of the word believe is as an expression of an attitude that is more wishful than confidence, as in “I believe everything will work out in the end.” This usage will be avoided in the following discussion.
King Lear presents us with a series of deceptions so outrageous that they might seem implausible to modern audiences, who may dismiss them as mere theatrical devices. How could a king be so easily fooled by his daughters' exaggerated flattery? How could both Regan and Goneril be so utterly captivated by the illegitimate Edmund? How could Gloucester fall so readily into Edmund's trap? This essay argues that these deceptions are not simply plot devices, but rather are driven by a significant element of self-deception. Each of these deceived characters harbors desires that lead them to believe these otherwise incredible falsehoods.
For the purpose of this analysis, the main characters in King Lear can be divided into two distinct groups. The first group includes Edmund, Lear, Goneril, Regan, and Cornwall. Their narratives are tragedies, each driven by profound self-deception (often concerning their own identities) that leads to ironic and devastating consequences. The second group serves a more symbolic function: Kent was a personification of loyalty, the Fool of reason, Cordelia of love, and Edgar of transcendence[1].
Before we delve into the analysis, it's important to clarify that this essay isn't trying to uncover Shakespeare's exact intentions. We can't know for sure if Shakespeare intended to explore the psychology of these characters in this way. But that doesn't mean we can't use our own understanding of the human mind to gain insights into this timeless masterpiece. One last disclaimer, while this interpretation draws from King Lear some metaphorical lessons, they do not necessarily fully align with my own philosophical views.
Edmund, who deceives nearly everyone he encounters in the play, offers this explanation for why people are so easily fooled. In a soliloquy, he scornfully mocks humanity's tendency to blame external forces for their misfortunes:
This is the excellent foppery of the world that when we
are sick in fortune—often the surfeit of our own
behavior—we make guilty of our disasters the sun, the
moon, and the stars, as if we were villains by
necessity, fools by heavenly compulsion, knaves,
thieves, and treachers by spherical predominance,
drunkards, liars, and adulterers by an enforced
obedience of planetary influence, and all that we are
evil in by a divine thrusting-on. (1.2.118-126)
Edmund's tone was one of superiority as he describes how people rationalize their own failings. The excuses they offer are utterly unbelievable, yet they cling to them because, regardless of how others might judge their morality, most people desire to see themselves as fundamentally good. This inherent gullibility, in Edmund's view, makes it natural for people to be deceived. He saw himself as an agent of this natural order, as evidenced in his declaration: “Thou, Nature, art my goddess. To thy law / My services are bound” (1.2.1-2)[2].
Driven by this belief, Edmund set out to seize the power and status he craved, deceiving nearly everyone in his path. He believed he could transcend his illegitimate birth and overcome the prevailing norms of blood legitimacy, convincing himself that nature was his ally. This is where his tragic flaw was revealed: he was not immune to the same gullibility he observed in others. Despite the hypocrisy and irony of his self-justification, his belief that he could defy his illegitimacy, while perhaps understandable to a modern audience, was as fantastical in that pre-modern era as the astrological influences he mocked. This was underscored by his invocation of "Nature" as his goddess—a notion as imaginative as the excuses he derided. Ultimately, the only explanation for why Edmund, an intelligent and cunning individual, held this belief was that he wanted it to be true. He was as much a victim of self-deception as those he despised.
Edmund's tragedy reaches its culmination in the final act. When he challenges Albany, who had previously referred to him as Gloucester, Albany's curt reply, "Half-blooded fellow, yes" (5.3.98), lays bare Edmund's true status. He had always been illegitimate[3], his self-deception as potent as the deceptions he inflicted on others. His soldiers were levied in Albany's name, as his illegitimate status afforded him no recognized authority. The "truth and honor" he claimed to fight for were mere illusions. Adding to the irony, he could have avoided the fatal duel with Edgar had he not scorned the very rules of knighthood he purported to uphold. Facing death, alone and unaware of his killer's identity, Edmund finally confronts reality, acknowledging his true status with the resigned words: "The wheel is come full circle. I am here." (5.3.217). This acceptance of his reality marks a turning point, leading him to reconcile with Edgar and attempt, however belatedly, to save Lear and Cordelia. Of the characters in the first group, Edmund alone possessed a degree of insight into others' flaws (though blind to his own), and perhaps for this reason, his end contains a hint of redemption.
Lear harbored a deep-seated pride in his inherent authority and nobility, a fact that Shakespeare makes abundantly clear through numerous textual clues[4]. He believed his subjects' devotion stemmed from these inherent qualities rather than from his political power as king. It follows, then, that he would also believe his children's love was rooted in his inherent worth, transcending the typical bond between father and daughter. This conviction formed the foundation of his decision to divide his kingdom among them. When he demanded that his daughters proclaim their love, he sought not genuine affection but mere confirmation of this belief. He envisioned himself as the generous, noble patriarch, relinquishing his throne yet retaining his authority and esteemed status, which he believed were inherently his.. The "glib and oily art" (1.1.246) of Goneril and Regan, though blatantly exaggerated to others, was precisely what he desired and anticipated.
The first significant challenge to Lear's belief comes from Cordelia's unforgettable response to his demand for a declaration of love: "I love your majesty / According to my bond, no more nor less" (1.1.94-95). To most, this answer seems perfectly reasonable and Lear's reaction—banishing her—shockingly extreme. However, as previously discussed, the true cause of this reaction lies not in the perceived lack of flattery, but in the fact that Cordelia's words directly refute Lear's belief about the nature of his daughters' love. Her answer threatens the very foundation of his self-identity, prompting the anguished question: how is it possible that Cordelia, his favorite, loves him merely as a father? Lear banishes Cordelia not for being untender, but because she is no longer "our joy" (1.1.84), having become inextricably linked to the perturbation and distress caused by this challenge to his worldview. The line, "Or all of it, with our displeasure pieced" (1.1.216) further reinforces this idea. It is possible that Lear's pain is so profound because, deep down, he senses the truth in her words, a possibility hinted at in his own pronouncement: "Let it be so. Thy truth then be thy dower." (1.1.112).
Lear clung to denial and self-deception for a time, but eventually, he could no longer ignore the truth: his two daughters had merely feigned their love, and, most devastatingly, he possessed no inherent authority. This realization shattered Lear's false self-identity, causing the entire network of beliefs built upon it to crumble. When an agent's worldview disintegrates in this way, agency becomes impossible—the individual loses their capacity to act rationally. Lear's descent into madness followed. In this state, freed from his deceptive self-identity, his mind was no longer clouded. He began to perceive the world differently, as evidenced by his own words: "“My wits begin to turn.” (3.2.71). However, without a foundational belief in his own identity to replace the one he lost, he remained lost. Edgar aptly describes Lear's condition: “matter and impertinency mixed! Reason in / madness!” (4.6.190)
Only after reuniting with Cordelia does Lear finally embrace a self-identity grounded in reality—that of the “old and foolish” father of Cordelia - “For as I am a man, I think this lady / To be my child Cordelia.” (4.7.79-80). With this newfound clarity, he begins to rebuild his agency, envisioning a future far more realistic than the one he imagined before relinquishing his kingdom. This hopeful vision is movingly expressed in his words to Cordelia: “Come, let’s away to prison. /../ So we’ll live, And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh…” (5.3.14)
It’s all too late. The seeds of this tragedy had already been sown long ago by Lear himself. Cordelia's death shatters that hopeful vision, and consigns Lear to the bleak reality he himself had earlier invoked when, in a fit of rage before she left for France, he declared: "nor shall ever see that face of hers again." (1.1.291). Holding her lifeless body, after a heart-wrenching and half mad lament, Lear finally grasps the full weight of this reality: "Oh, thou'lt come no more / Never, never, never, never, never.- "(5.3.376-377), His last, fragile self-identity—that of an ordinary father—is rendered impossible, and with it, his existence.
Regan and Goneril meticulously lay out their "rationale" for their mistreatment of Lear: his knights were unruly, the aging Lear was in need of guidance, and they themselves were the voices of reason. However, this was merely motivated reasoning and self-deception, fooling no one but themselves. The sisters were well aware that their actions stemmed from a desire to secure their own power; an unpredictable old man with a hundred knights posed a very real threat[5] . They sought to convince themselves that their cruel deeds were justified, even noble, and that they were not villains. Regan's swiftness to blame Edgar's fabricated treachery partly on Lear provides another example of this motivated reasoning: “Was he not companion with the riotous knights / That tend upon my father? …'Tis they have put him on the old man’s death, / To have th' expense and spoil of his revenues” (2.1.105, 110-111). This is a rather creative way of conjuring up more evidence against Lear. Ultimately, their justifications were driven by a deep-seated need to maintain a self-image as honorable individuals, to avoid seeing themselves as cruel or evil.
If their earlier motivated reasoning hinted at self-deception, their romantic entanglement with Edmund reveals it in its entirety. It might seem overly theatrical, especially to modern audiences, that both Regan and Goneril could be so easily manipulated by Edmund, believing this illegitimate son to harbor genuine affection for them. But here lies the ultimate irony: they fall prey to the same fallacy as Lear[6]. They believe in their own inherent honor (and perhaps their feminine charms), a self-deception parallel to Lear's belief in his inherent authority. Blinded by this distorted self-image, they, like Lear, accept Edmund's flattery wholeheartedly, oblivious to his true ulterior motive: to seize their power.
Further amplifying the irony, both sisters, like Lear, descend into a kind of madness when confronted with the truth of Edmund's duplicity. Their public displays of jealousy over Edmund become increasingly desperate, bordering on deranged. Goneril, for instance, declares she would "rather lose the battle than that sister / Should loosen him and me" (5.1.23-24). Regan's pronouncements are even more unhinged, as she proclaims to Edmund: “Take thou my soldiers, prisoners, patrimony./ Dispose of them, of me. The walls is thine. / Witness the world that I create thee here/ My lord and master” (5.3.91-94). The deaths of these two, mirroring Lear's own tragic end, extinguish any lingering hope for their reconciliation with reality.
Gloucester held a peculiar fondness for Edmund. While one might expect this affection to be based on some redeeming quality in his illegitimate son, Gloucester never articulates such a reason. Instead, his fondness seems rooted in Edmund's association with the "good sport" he had with the boy's fair mother[7]. When presented with the letter, it never occurs to Gloucester, not even for a moment, that Edmund might be the one manipulating the situation. The very idea that Edmund could be deceiving him was simply unthinkable inside Gloucester's head, a blind spot that is a direct result of his irrational affection for Edmund.
The fact that Edgar, whom he called "no dearer" than Edmund, was his only legitimate son and the one entitled to inherit his title and property seemed almost an inconvenience to Gloucester. With minimal coaxing from Edmund, who merely feigned advocacy for Edgar, Gloucester readily seized upon the preposterous notion that his loyal and legitimate son was plotting against him. Initially, Gloucester recognized the possibility of a misunderstanding, stating, “He cannot be such a monster—” (1.2.94). He even expressed hope that Edgar would be exonerated by Edmund's proposed plan: “I would unstate myself to be in a due / resolution” (1.2.99-100). However, he quickly conjures up a rationalization, seemingly out of thin air: ”These late eclipses in the sun and moon portend no good to us./…This villain of mine comes under the / prediction—there’s son against father” (1.2.103-106). Edmund's success in deceiving Gloucester stems from the older man's own desire for Edmund to be his legitimate son and his blindness to the possibility that Edmund might be capable of such treachery.
This metaphorical blindness becomes shockingly literal when, after being interrogated by Cornwall about a letter from France (3.7.45)—a secret known only to Edmund—Gloucester, even as his eyes are being gouged out, still calls for his treacherous son: “All dark and comfortless. Where’s my son Edmund? / Edmund, enkindle all the sparks of nature / To quit this horrid act” (3.7.100-102). Gloucester's tragedy lies in the fact that only after being physically blinded does he begin to grasp the truth, to "see it feelingly" (4.6.165). However, by this point, he is utterly broken and has lost the will to live. His existence is briefly sustained by Edgar's loving deception, but he ultimately succumbs to the "two extremes of passion, joy and grief" (5.3.242) when the full weight of reality is revealed to him.
Cornwall, though a minor character, is described by Gloucester as having a stubborn disposition that "all the world well knows, / Will not be rubbed nor stopped" (2.2.158). This inflexibility in one's own judgment often signals a denial of one's own flaws—another form of self-deception. Shakespeare underscores the irony of Cornwall's overconfidence by highlighting his misplaced praise and trust in Edmund[8].
Shakespeare crafts a relatively brief but impactful tragedy for Cornwall. Unable to control his own "wrath" against Gloucester, Cornwall gives in to a desire to "do a courtesy to it" (3.7.25). Fully aware that his actions are "Without the form of justice" (3.7.26), he nonetheless chose to believe, oozing hypocrisy, that “men may blame, but not control. “(3.7.26-28) Moments later, he is fatally wounded by one of his own servants, who, despite having "served [him] ever since [he] was a child" (3.7.73), cannot contain his outrage at Cornwall's cruelty and injustice.
The conversation disguised Kent had with Lear in Act 1 Scene 4 was revealing.
LEAR: Dost thou know me, fellow?
KENT: No, sir. But you have that in your countenance which / I / would fain call master.
LEAR: What’s that?
KENT: Authority. (1.4 24-28)
Kent’s loyalty to Lear is rooted in his recognition of Lear’s self identified “inherent authority”, it’s a loyalty born out of nothing. As arguably the only character exhibiting such unwavering and selfless allegiance, Kent’s character is almost an abstract symbol, a personification of loyalty itself. This sheds light on Kent's furious reaction to Oswald[9]. For Kent, the ultimate outrage is Oswald's insolent dismissal of Lear's supposed "inherent authority," particularly coming from a lowly servant, vividly exemplified in the exchange: Lear: "Who am I, sir?" Oswald: "My lady's father." (1.4.73-74). Compared to this, the sisters' betrayal seems to elicit less of a reaction from Kent.
Another revealing exchange occurs between Kent and the Fool, when Kent expresses his bewilderment over the King's dwindling number of knights (another negative evidence against Lear’s inherent authority). The Fool lectured him that nothing will come of nothing, there's no concrete reason for the knights to remain loyal. Only fools, like the Fool himself and Kent, would stay (2.4.69-89). However, this is not to say that the Fool and Kent are truly foolish. Rather, they are less realistic characters and more symbolic figures. Kent follows Lear till the very end and, fitting as the symbol of loyalty, ceases to exist soon after the master.
The Fool was always there to spell out, again and again, plain and simple, truth obvious to any reasonable man, and how foolish that they chose to ignore. He observed how “wise men” reject the truth that is right before them, opting instead for deception: “Truth’s a dog that must to kennel. He must be / whipped / out, when Lady Brach may stand by th' fire and / stink” (1.4.106-109). Is this not self-deception? The Fool, then, can be interpreted as the embodiment of the type of rationality that people take for granted, yet readily abandon when it clashes with their desires. We tend to perceive ourselves as rational beings, believing that reason is a straightforward faculty accessible to all but the senile or foolish. However, more often than not, our reasoning is subtly warped by hidden desires, transforming into mere rationalization. This tendency to conflate desires with beliefs renders such "straightforward" reasoning not just ineffective but potentially dangerous, since from false beliefs we can only deduce more false beliefs. The alternative, as we see in the journeys of Lear, Gloucester, and Edgar, may lie in embracing firsthand, subjective experience—in truly feeling, a point I will come back to later. Seen in this light, the Fool's disappearance midway through the play could be interpreted as a symbolic rejection of this assumed form of rationality.
Cordelia embodies a genuine, earthly love, a love that is grounded in reality—in her case, the natural bond between parent and child. This contrasts sharply with the kind of extravagant love presented by Regan and Goneril; that kind of love does not exist because, as Lear himself states, “Nothing can be made out of nothing.”(1.4.136). Cordelia's symbolic representation of love is further emphasized when she declares that her invasion is motivated not by ambition, but by "love—dear love!—" (4.4.30-31).
The tenderness and beauty of this embodiment of earthly love was poignantly captured in the description of Cordelia reading Kent's letter. The Gentleman reports: “Those happy smilets / That played on her ripe lip seemed not to know / What guests were in her eyes, which parted thence / As pearls from diamonds dropped. In brief, / Sorrow would be a rarity most beloved / If all could so become it.”(4.3.20-25) Her death, then, is the tragic consequence of Lear's unrealistic expectations of love and loyalty—a stark reminder that when we lose our grasp on reality, we risk losing what is most real and cherished.
Initially Edmund’s manipulation is so complete that it's almost as if Edgar had no agency. However, after being reduced to nothing, Edgar exhibits his first sign of independent action. Driven by the necessity for survival, he adopts the guise of a mad beggar, shedding his clothes as if to shed the most basic of human desires (an act that Lear later comes to admire[10].) He declares, "that's something yet. Edgar I nothing am" (2.3.21), acknowledging that as Poor Tom, he is at least something. In retrospect, this seemingly downward spiral marks the beginning of his transcendence. Cast to the lowest rung of society, he is freed from the need for a deceptive self-identity. As he reflects, “Yet better thus, and known to be contemned,/Than still contemned and flattered” (4.1.1-2) indicating that a humble but honest self-image is preferable to one built on falsehoods. With this new, albeit minimal, sense of self—Poor Tom—Edgar begins to perceive the world differently, forming new beliefs and, with them, a new worldview. (This contrasts with Lear, who, despite his altered perceptions in madness, lacks a stable foundation upon which to build a new belief system.)
One insight Edgar gains through his ordeal is that true empathy often arises from shared suffering.[11] While this might appear to be a simple observation about empathy, it raises a deeper epistemological question: is humanity incapable of truly grasping a reality without firsthand experience of it?
In Lear, Edgar witnesses the brutal power of truth laid bare. He initially chooses to maintain his disguise to protect his father, even staging a false miracle—the cliff jump—in an attempt to lift him out of despair with a fabricated divine hope. This attempt fails, since, again, “nothing can be made out of nothing”(1.4.136). However, Edgar ultimately does achieve a form of transcendence, not for his father, but for his brother, Edmund. By defeating Edmund in combat, Edgar brings his brother back to reality in full circle. By revealing the truth of their shared history and their father’s suffering, he moves Edmund to a state of profound remorse. This suggests that only truth has the power to truly transform and transcend.
Edgar concludes the play with this remark:
“Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say. “(6.1.398)
Perhaps he is suggesting that humanity, in its flawed nature, is incapable of grasping truth solely through reason. Perhaps we can only truly learn and grow through the gradual, often painful, process of lived experience.
Human agency operates thus: actions are driven by desires and guided by worldviews—networks of beliefs built upon each other. Building upon core beliefs, a person uses simple logical deduction to derive further beliefs, layering them to construct the worldview that underpins their confidence in their actions. Yet, hidden within this network of beliefs, inaccurate ones can exist, compromising the integrity of the entire worldview.
The tragedy of self-deception lies in this: a desire, operating beneath conscious awareness, is mistaken for a belief and corrupts the person’s worldview, and the actions stemming from this worldview ironically lead a person further away from what they most desire. Lear's desire for inherent nobility and authority is mistaken for the belief that he possesses them. From this flawed premise, he logically deduces that his daughters worship him. However, his actions, guided by this distorted worldview, resulted in him becoming a madman, the antithesis of his desired nobility, a tragedy reenacted by Edmund, Goneril, Regan, Cornwall, and, in part, Gloucester.
Self-deception carries another tragic dimension: we are inherently blind to our own self-deceptions, much like the blind spots in our vision. Thus, while our actions may appear foolish to others, we remain oblivious to their flaws until we experience the often catastrophic consequences.
However, a path to wisdom exists: we are not limited to building worldviews through logic alone; we can also obtain new beliefs through direct, subjective experience. Edgar exemplifies this: initially a character seemingly without agency or a defined worldview, he acquired a profound understanding of the world through experiencing suffering firsthand—his own, Lear's, and his father's—illustrating the transcendence that subjective experience can offer.
This prospect of transcending worldviews through subjective experience finds a strong resonance in Richard Rorty's philosophy, which he termed cynical idealism: We cannot simply derive truth from foundational knowledge to construct a grand worldview; this enterprise is fraught with contingencies, self-deception among them. Therefore, if we desire to reduce human suffering, we cannot rely on grand worldviews of good versus evil or truth versus falsehood. Such worldviews, claiming ultimate truth but most likely compromised, have proved tragically catastrophic—as the recent horrors of WWII and totalitarian regimes readily remind us. The surest path toward sane worldviews that can help us reduce human suffering lies in sharing subjective experiences—a primary function of literature and art. These mediums offer us the closest approximation of experiencing another's suffering firsthand.
Some of these elements, especially loyalty, are more fundamental in the minds during Shakespeare’s time than modern era.
It could be read as that Edmund was saying that metaphorically, but it’s more likely just modern reader’s hesitancy in taking supernatural ideas literally. Edmund could well be as serious as fellow humans rationalizing their folly with heavenly influences if we adopt a more historical mindset.
Another evidence that Edmund was always a bastard is from Kent (4.7.104)
As ’tis said, the bastard son of Gloucester.
LEAR (1.1.50)
That we our largest bounty may extend
Where nature doth with merit challenge?—
This quote, from the initial love test, implies that Lear sees himself as a generous and powerful figure whose "bounty" is a significant reward. The phrase "where nature doth with merit challenge" suggests that he believes his daughters' love should be based on their inherent worthiness and his own merit.
During his conversation with Kent, it’s more explicit.
LEAR (1.1.181)
That thou hast sought to make us break our vows,
Which we durst never yet, and with strained pride
To come betwixt our sentence and our power,
Which nor our nature nor our place can bear,
Our potency made good
In Lear’s conversation with Oswald, he even seeked confirmation of this inherent authority, and when rejected, he burst into rage.
LEAR (1.4.75)
Who am I, sir? Oh you, sir, you, come here, sir. Who am I, sir?
OSWALD
My lady’s father.
LEAR
“My lady’s father?” My lord’s knave, your whoreson dog!
You slave, you cur!
Lear also invoke gods as reflection of his own status, “by Apollo”, “by Jupiter”
per GONERIL (1.4.331)
This man hath had good counsel—a hundred knights!
'Tis politic and safe to let him keep
At point a hundred knights, yes, that on every dream,
Each buzz, each fancy, each complaint, dislike,
He may enguard his dotage with their powers
And hold our lives in mercy?— Oswald, I say!
This possibility was also suggested by Lear himself (1.5.37)
To take ’t again perforce—Monster ingratitude!
This similarity was also hinted by FOOL(1.4.177)
I marvel what kin thou and thy daughters are.
GLOUCESTER declared it at the very beginning (1.1.18-24)
But I have, sir, a son by order of law, some year older
than this, who yet is no dearer in my account. Though
this knave came something saucily to the world before he
was sent for, yet was his mother fair, there was good
sport at his making, and the whoreson must be
acknowledged.— Do you know this noble gentleman, Edmund?
Cornwall declares, "Whose virtue and obedience doth this instant / So much commend itself, you shall be ours" (2.1.127-128), and later, "I will lay trust upon thee, and thou shalt find a / dearer father in my love" (3.5.23-24).
When asked by Cornwall what was the crime of Oswald, Kent answered: “His countenance likes me not.” (2.2.87) implying that this rage is every bit personal.
LEAR (3.3.102-108)
Thou owest the
worm no silk, the beast no hide, the sheep no wool, the
cat no perfume. Ha! Here’s three on ’s are
sophisticated. Thou art the thing itself. Unaccommodated
man is no more but such a poor, bare, forked animal as
thou art.—Off, off, you lendings! Come. Unbutton here.
[tears at his clothes]
In text
EDGAR （3.6.111-120）
When we our betters see bearing our woes,
We scarcely think our miseries our foes.
Who alone suffers, suffers most i' th' mind,
Leaving free things and happy shows behind.
But then the mind much sufferance doth o'erskip
When grief hath mates and bearing fellowship.
How light and portable my pain seems now
When that which makes me bend makes the king bow.
He childed as I fathered
EDGAR answering who he is (4.6.244-246):
A most poor man made tame to fortune’s blows,
Who by the art of known and feeling sorrows
Am pregnant to good pity.
This insight was also echoed by Lear and Gloucester.
LEAR (3.4.38-40)
Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel,
That thou mayst shake the superflux to them
And show the heavens more just.
GLOUCESTER (4.1.83)
Let the superfluous and lust-dieted man,
That slaves your ordinance, that will not see
Because he doth not feel,