Arraign her first, ‘tis Goneril—I here take my oath, before this honourable assembly—kicked the poor king her father. (III.vi)
Is there any cause in nature that makes these hard hearts? (III.vi)
Though well we may not pass upon his life
Without the form of justice, yet our power
Shall do a courtesy to our wrath (III.vii)
I would not see thy cruel nails
Pluck out his poor old eyes (III.vii)
Out, vile jelly (III.vii)