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Give me some help.-Oh, cruel! oh! ye gods.
Serv. Hold, hold, my lord ! I bar your cruelty ; I cannot love your safety, and give way To such a barbarous practice.
Cornw. Ah, my villain !
Serv. I have been your servant from my infancy,
Cornw. Take thy death, flave.
[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 eyelefs villain; throw this flave Upon the dunghill.--Regan, I bleed apace. . Untimely comes this hurt. Give me your arm.
[Exit, led by Regan.
SCENE, an open Country,
Enter Glocefter, led by an Old Man.
Life would not yield to age.
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 fon 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, else he could not beg.
since. As flies to 'wanton boys are we to th’ gods; They kill us for their sport.
Edgar. Alas, he's sensible that I was wrong'd, And should I own myself, his tender heart Would break betwixt extremes of grief and joy. Bad is the trade must play the fool to forrow, Ang’ring itself and others.-Bless thee, master!
Gloc. Is that the naked fellow ?
Gloc. Get thee away : If, for my fake,
Old Man. Alack, Sir, he is mad.
Old Man. I'll bring him the best parrelthat I have, Come on't what will.
Edgar. And yet I must!
Edgar. Edgar. Both stile and gate, horse-way and footpath. Poor Tom hath been scar'd out of his good wits. Bless thee, good man, from the foul fiend. Gloc. Here, take this purse, thou whom the
Heavens' plagues Have humbled to all strokes. That I am wretched, Makes thee the happier: Heavens deal so still. Doft thou know Dover?
Edgar. Ay, master.
Gloc. There is a cliff, whose high and bending head Looks fearfully on the confined deep : Bring me but to the very brink of it, And I'll repair the misery thou dost bear, With something rich about me: from that placc I shall no leading need.
Edgar. Give me thy arm : Poor Tom shall lead thee.
Scene, the Duke of Albany's palace.
Enter Gönerill and Edmund. Gon. Welcome, my lord. I marvel, our mild
husband Not met us on the way.
Enter Steward. Now, where's your master ?