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A Thine honour from thy suffering !
Enter Steward, with a letter.
Gon. One way I like this well:
Enter Kent and a Gentleman.
Kent. Spoke you with her since ?
Gent. Why, good Sir ?
him So venomously, that burning shame detains him From his dear daughter.
Gent. Alack, poor gentleman !
Kent. Well, Sir, I'll bring you to our master Lear, And leave you to attend him. Some dear cause Will in concealment wrap me up awhile: When I am known aright, you shall not grieve Lending me this acquaintance. Pray, along with
Scene, a camp.
Enter Cordelia, Physician, and Soldiers. Cord. Alack, 'tis he! why, he was met ev'n now As mad as the vex'd sea, singing aloud, Crowned with flowers, and all the weeds that grow In our sustaining corn.-Their poor old father! Oh, fifters, fifters! shame of ladies ! fifters ! Ha, Regan, Gonerill! what! i'th'storm? i'th' night? Let pity ne'er believe it ! oh, my heart! Phys. Take comfort, madam ; there are means
to cure him.
Phys. Be patient, madam:
Cord. All bleft fecrets, All you unpublish'd virtues of the earth, Spring with my tears; be aidant and remediate In the good man's distress! feek, seek for him ; Left his ungovern'd rage dissolve his life.
[Exeunt Attendants. If it be so, one only boon I beg; That you'd convey me to his breathless trunk, With my own hands to close a father's eyes, With show'rs of tears to wash his clay-cold cheeks, Then o'er his limbs, with one heart-rending
sigh, To breathe my spirit out, and die beside him.
Enter a Messenger. Mes: News, madam: The British pow'rs are marching hitherward. Cord. 'Tis known before. Our preparation
stands In expectation of them. Oh, dear father, It is thy business that I go about: therefore, great
France My mourning and important tears háth pitied. No blown ambition doth our arms incite, But love, dear love, and our ag'd father's right.
Scene, the country near Dover.
Enter Glocefter, and Edgar as a peasant.
Edgar. Horrible steep.
Gloc. No, truly.
Edgar. Why then your other senses growimperfect By your eyes' anguish,
Gloc. So may it be, indeed. Methinks, thy voice is alter'd; and thou speak'st In better phrase and matter than thou didst. Edgar. You're much deceiv’d: In nothing am I
Gloc. Sure, you're better spoken,
still. How fearful