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Edgar. Good gentleman, go your gate, and let poor volk pafs: And 'chud ha' been zwagger'd out of my life, 'twould not ha' been zo long as 'tis by a vortnight. Nay, come not near th' old man; keep out, or i'fe try whether your coftard or my bat be the harder. [Fight. Stew. Out, dunghill! [Edgar knocks him down. Slave, thou haft flain me; oh, untimely death!—

[Dies. Edgar. I know thee well, a ferviceable villain; As duteous to the vices of thy mistress, As badness would defire.

Gloc. What, is he dead?

Edgar. Sit you down, Sir.

This is a letter-carrier, and may have.

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Some papers of intelligence-what's here? "To Edmund, earl of Glo'fter. "Let our reciprocal vows be remembered. You have many opportunities to cut him off; if he return the conqueror, then am I the prisoner, " and his bed my gaol; from the loathed warmth "whereof deliver me, and supply the place for "your labour.

"Your (wife, fo I would fay)

"affectionate fervant,

"GONERILL."

Oh,

Oh, undiftinguifh'd space of woman's will!
A plot upon her virtuous husband's life,
And the exchange my brother. Here, i'th'fands
Thee I'll rake up, the poft unfanctified

Of murd'rous lechers: and in the mature time,
With this ungracious paper strike the sight
Of the death-practis'd duke. Give me your hand:
Come, Sir, I will bestow you with a friend.

[Exe.

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Lear afleep on a couch, Cordelia, and attendants.

O

Cordelia.

H, ye kind gods!

Cure this great breach in his abused nature! Th'untun'd and jarring fenfes, oh, wind up Of this child-changed father!

Phyf. Be by, good madam, when we do awake him;

I doubt not of his temperance.

Cord. Oh, my dear father! Restauration, hang

Thy

Thy medicine on my lips; and let this kifs Repair those violent harms, that my two fifters Have in thy reverence made!

Phyf. Kind and dearest princess!

Cord. Oh, Regan! Gonerill, inhuman fisters! Had he not been your father, thefe white flakes Did challenge pity of you. Was this a face To be expos'd against the warring winds? To stand against the deep, dread-bolted thunder? In the most terrible and nimble ftroke

Of quick, cross lightning ?-My very enemy's dog, Tho' he had bit me, should have stood that night Against my fire and wast thou fain, poor father, To hovel thee

In short and musty straw? Alack, alack!

"Tis wonder, that thy life and wits, at once, Had not concluded all. He wakes; speak to him. Phyf. Madam, do you; 'tis fitteft.

Cord. How does my royal lord? How fares your majesty?

Lear. You do me wrong, to take me out o'th' graves Ha! is this too a world of cruelty?

I know my privilege; think not that I will
Be treated like a wretched mortal! No.
No more of that!

Cord. Speak to me, Sir; who am I?

Lear.

Lear. Thou art a foul in blifs; but I am bound Upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears

Do fcald like molten lead.

Cord. Sir, do you know me?

Lear. You're a fpirit, I know; when did you die? Cord. Still, ftill, far wide!

Phyf. He's scarce awake: he'll foon grow more compos'd.

Lear. Where have I been? where am I? fair

day-light?

I'm mightily abus'd; I should even die with pity,
To see another thus. I know not what to fay;
I will not swear these are my hands:
'Would I were affur'd of my condition!
Cord. Oh, look upon me, Sir,

And hold your hand in benediction o'er me.
Nay, Sir, you must not kneel.

Lear. Pray do not mock me;

I am a very foolish fond old man,
Fourfcore and upward; and to deal plainly,
I fear, I am not in my perfect mind.

Cord. Ah, then farewell to patience! witnefs

for me,

Ye mighty pow'rs, I ne'er complain'd till now! Lear. Methinks, I should know you, and know

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Yet I am doubtful: for I'm mainly ignorant
What place this is; and all the skill I have
Remembers not these garments: nay, I know not
Where I did fleep last night. Do not laugh at me,
For, as I am a man, I think this lady

To be my child Cordelia.

Cord. Oh, my dear, dear father!

Lear. Be your tears wet? yes, faith; pray do

not weep.

I know I have giv'n thee caufe, and am fo humbled
With croffes fince, that I could ask
Forgiveness of thee, were it poffible

That thou couldft grant it;

If thou haft poifon for me I will drink it,
Blefs thee, and die.

Cord. Oh, pity, Sir, a bleeding heart, and ceafe

This killing language.

Lear. Tell me, friends, where am I?

Phyf. In your own kingdom, Sir.

Lear. Do not abufe me.

Phyf. Be comforted, good madam, for the violence Of his diftemper's paft; we'll lead him in, Nor trouble him, 'till he is better fettled. Will't pleafe you, Sir, walk into freer air?

Lear. You must bear with me; pray you now, Forget and forgive! I am old and foolish.

[They lead him off.

Cord.

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