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A Thine honour from thy suffering !

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Enter Steward, with a letter.
Stew. This letter, madam, craves a speedy answer:
'Tis from your sister. Cornwall being dead,
His loss your fifter has in part supplied,
Making earl Edmund general of her forces.

Gon. One way I like this well:
But being widow, and my Glo'ster with her,
May pluck down all the building of my love.
I'll read, and answer these dispatches straight.
It was great ign'rance, Glo'ster's eyes being out,
To let him live. Add speed unto your journey,
And if you chance to meet that old blind traitor,
Preferment falls on him that cuts him off. [Exeunt.


Scene, Dover.

Enter Kent and a Gentleman.
Kent. Did your letters pierce the queen to any
demonstration of grief?
Gent. Yes, Sir;' she took 'em, read 'em in my

And now and then a big round tear ran down
Her delicate cheek: Much mov'd, but not to rage,
Patience with sorrow strove. Her smiles and tears
Were like a wetter May.


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Kent. Spoke you with her since ?
Gent. No.
Kent. Well, Sir; the poor distressed Lear's in

Who sometimes, in his better túne remembers
What we are come about; and by no means
Will yield to fee Cordelia.

Gent. Why, good Sir ?
Kent. A fou'reign shame so bows him; his un-

That stripp'd her from his benediction, turn’d her
To foreign casualties, gave her dear rights
To his dog-hearted daughters; these things sting

him So venomously, that burning shame detains him From his dear daughter.

Gent. Alack, poor gentleman !
Kent. Of Albany's and Cornwall's pow'rs you

heard ?
Gent. 'Tis so, they are afoot.

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

[Exeunt. N2



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.
Cord. No, 'tis too probable the furious storm
Has pierc'd his tender body past all cure;
And the bleak winds, cold rain, and sulph'rous

Unsettled his care-wearied mind for ever.
Send forth a cent'ry, bring him to our cye ;
Try all the art of man, all med'cine's power,
For the restoring his bereaved sense!
He that helps him, take all !

Phys. Be patient, madam:
Our foster nurse of Nature is repose,
The which he lacks: that to provoke in him
Are many lenient simples, which have power
To close the eye of anguish.


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.



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Scene, the country near Dover.

Enter Glocefter, and Edgar as a peasant.
Gloc. When shall I come to th' top of that same

Edgar. You do climb up it now. Mark, how we

Gloc. Methinks, the ground is even.

Edgar. Horrible steep.
Hark, do you hear the sea ?

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

But in my garments.

Gloc. Sure, you're better spoken,
Edgar. Come on, Sir; here's the place-stand

still. How fearful
And dizzy ’tis, to cast one's eyes so low!
The crows and choughs, that wing the midway air,
Shew scarce so grofs as beetles. Half way down
Hangs one that gathers samphire; dreadful trade!


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