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going, to a moft hafty preparation ; we are bound to the like. Our posts shall be swift, and intelligent betwixt us. Farewell, dear sister; farewell, my lord of Glo'ster.
Enter Steward. How now? Where's the King ?
Stew. My lord of Glo'ster has convey'd him hence,
Cornw. Get horses for your mistress.
[Exeunt Gon, and Edm. Cornw. Edmund, farewell.--Go seek the traitor
Enter Glocester, brought in by Servants,
Regan. 'Tis he. Thank Heaven, he's ta'en
Gloc. What mean your graces ?
[They bind him.
Regan. Hard, hard: Oh, traitor! thou shalt find
from France ?
Regan. To whose hands
Cornw. Where halt thou sent the king ?
Regan. Wherefore to Dover ?
Gloc. Because I would not see thy cruel nails
your work ;
[Exeunt Gloc. and Serv. If thou seest vengeance Gloc. [without] He that will think to live 'till he be old
Give me some help.-Oh, cruel! oh! ye gods.
Serv. Hold, hold, ny lord! I bar your cruelty; I cannot love your safety, and give way To such a barbarous practice.
Cornw. Ah, my villain !
Sery. I have been your servant from my infancy,
Cornw. Take thy death, slave.
[Fight. Regan. Help here ! are you not hurt, my lord ?
Re-enter Glocester and Servants.
Regan. Out, treacherous villain!
Gloc. Oh, my follies !
Regan. Go, thrust him out
[Exeunt with Gloc,
How is't, my lord ? how look you?
Cornw. I have receiv'd a hurt: follow me, lady Turn out that eyeless villain; throw this slave Upon the dunghill.-Regan, I bleed apace.
. Untimely comes this hurt.
Give me your arm.
Y Thane te in contemnéd and Hatter'd. To be
Enter Glocefter, led by an Old Man.
Life would not yield to age.
tenant, And your father's tenant, these fourscore years.
Gloc. Away, get thee away: good friend, be gone; Thy comforts can do me no good at all, Thee they may hurt.
Old Man. You cannot see your way.
Gloc. I have no way, and therefore want no eyes: I stumbled when I saw. Oh, dear son Edgar, Might I but live to see thee in my touch, I'd say, I had.eyes again!
Old Man. How now ? who's there?
Edgar. Oh,gods;whois’t can say, I'm at the worst? I'm worse, than e'er I was.
Old Man. 'Tis poor mad Tom.
Gloc. He has some reason, elfe he could not beg.
since. As flies to wanton boys are we to th' gods; They kill us for their sport.