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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,
But better service have I never done you
Than with this boldness

Cornw. Take thy death, flave.
Serv. Nay then, revenge !

[Fight. Regan. Help here ! are you not hurt, my lord ?

Re-enter Glocester and Servants.
Gloc. All dark and comfortless.- Where's my son

Edmund ?
Edmund, enkindle all the fparks of nature
To quit this horrid act.

Regan. Out, treacherous villain!
Thou call'st on him that hates thee: It was he
That broach'd thy treasons to us.

Gloc. Oh, my follies !
Then Edgar was abus’d. Kind gods, forgive
Me that, and prosper him !

Regan. Go, thrust him out
Atgates, and let him smell his way to Dover.

[Exeunt with Gloc.

How

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.

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SCENE, an open Country,

Enter Edgar.

Edgar.
ET better thus, and known to be contemn'd,
Than still contemn'd and flatter'd. To be

worst,
The lowest, most dejected thing of fortune,
Stands still in esperance; lives not in fear.
The lamentable change is from the best ;
The worst returns to comfort.

Enter Glocefter, led by an Old Man.
Who comes here?
My father poorly led? World, world! oh, world!
But that thy strange mutations make us wait thee,

Life

Life would not yield to age.
Old Man. Oh, my good lord, I have been your

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 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. Is it a beggar-man ?
Old Man. Madman, and beggar too.

Gloc. He has some reason, else he could not beg.
I'th' last night's storm I such a fellow saw;
Which made me think a man, a worm.
Came then into my mind; and yet my mind
Was then scarce friends with him. I've heard more

since. As flies to 'wanton boys are we to th’ gods; They kill us for their sport.

Edgar.

My son

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 ?
Old Man. Ay, my lord.

Gloc. Get thee away : If, for my fake,
Thou wilt o'ertake us hence a mile or twain
I'th' way tow'rd Dover, do it for ancient love;
And bring fome covering for this naked wretch,
Whom I'll entreat to lead me.

Old Man. Alack, Sir, he is mad.
Gloc. 'Tis the time's plague when madmen lead

the blind:
Do as I bid, or rather do thy pleasure ;
Above the rest, begone.

Old Man. I'll bring him the best parrelthat I have, Come on't what will.

[Exit.
Gloc. Sirrah, naked fellow !
Edgar. Poor Tom's a-cold.--I cannot fool it

further.
Gloc. Come hither, fellow.

Edgar. And yet I must!
Blefs thy sweet eyes, they bleed.
Gloc. Know'st thou the way to Dover?

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.

[Exeunt.

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 ?

Stew.

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