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Give me fome help.-Oh, cruel! oh! ye gods.
Serv. Hold, hold, my lord! I bar your cruelty;
I cannot love your safety, and give way
To fuch a barbarous practice.

Cornw. Ah, my villain!

Serv. I have been your fervant from my infancy, But better service have I never done you

Than with this boldnefs

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 fon Edmund ?

Edmund, enkindle all the fparks of nature

To quit this horrid act.

Regan. Out, treacherous villain!

Thou call'ft 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 profper him!

Regan. Go, thrust him out

At gates, and let him fmell 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 slave Upon the dunghill.-Regan, I bleed apace. Untimely comes this hurt. Give me your arm.

[Exit, led by Regan.

ACT

IV.

SCENE, an open Country.

Enter Edgar.

Edgar.

ET better thus, and known to be contemn'd,

YE

Than ftill contemn'd and flatter'd. To be
worst,

The lowest, most dejected thing of fortune,
Stands ftill in efperance; 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

And

tenant,

your father's tenant, thefe fourfcore 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 fee your way.

Gloc. I have no way, and therefore want no eyes: I ftumbled when I faw. Oh, dear fon Edgar, Might I but live to see thee in my touch,

I'd fay, I had eyes again!

Old Man. How now? who's there?

Edgar. Oh, gods; who is't can fay, 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 fome reason, else he could not beg. I'th' last night's ftorm I fuch a fellow faw; Which made me think a man, a worm. My fon Came then into my mind; and yet my mind

Was then scarce friends with him. I've heard more

fince.

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

Edgar.

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.-Blefs thee, mafter! 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 reft, begone.

Old Man. I'll bring him the best 'parrel that I have,

Come on't what will.

Gloc. Sirrah, naked fellow!

[Exit.

Edgar. Poor Tom's a-cold.-I cannot fool it

further.

Gloc. Come hither, fellow.

Edgar. And yet I must!

Blefs thy fweet eyes, they bleed.

Gloc. Know'st thou the way to Dover?

Edgar.

Edgar. Both ftile and gate, horfe-way and footpath. Poor Tom hath been scar'd out of his good wits. Blefs thee, good man, from the foul fiend. Gloc. Here, take this purfe, thou whom the Heavens' plagues

Have humbled to all ftrokes. That I am wretched, Makes thee the happier: Heavens deal fo ftill. Doft thou know Dover?

Edgar. Ay, mafter.

Gloc. There is a cliff, whofe high and bending head Looks fearfully on the confined deep:

Bring me but to the very brink of it,

And I'll repair the mifery thou dost bear,

With fomething rich about me: from that placc

I fhall no leading need.

Edgar. Give me thy arm:

Poor Tom shall lead thee.

Scene, the Duke of Albany's palace.

Enter Gonerill and Edmund.

[Exeunt.

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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