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.

    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 over-ruled. 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.