Edg. Chi'll not let go, zir, without vurther 'casion.

Stew. Let go, slave, or thou diest.

Edg. Good gentleman, go your gait, and let poor volk pass. And ch'ud ha' been zwaggered out of my life, 'twould not ha' been zo long as 'tis by a vortnight. Nay, come not near the old man; keep out, che vor'ye, or ise try whether your costard 1 my bat be the harder: ch'ill be plain with you. Stew. Out, dunghill!

or

Edg. Ch'ill pick your teeth, zir. Come; no matter vor your foins.2

[they fight; and Edgar knocks him down. Stew. Slave, thou hast slain me.-Villain, take

my purse.

If ever thou wilt thrive, bury my body;

And give the letters, which thou find'st about me,
To Edmund earl of Gloster; seek him out
Upon the British party :-O, untimely death!

Edg. I know thee well: a serviceable villain ; As duteous to the vices of thy mistress,

As badness would desire.

Glos.

What, is he dead?

Edg. Sit you down, father; rest you.

[dies.

Let's see his pockets: these letters, that he speaks

of,

May be my friends.-He's dead; I am only sorry

He had no other death's-man.-Let us see.

Leave, gentle wax; and, manners, blame us not:
To know our enemies' minds, we'd rip their hearts;
Their papers, is more lawful.

[reads.] Let our reciprocal vows be remembered. You have many opportunities to cut him off: if your will want not, time and place will be fruitfully offered. There is nothing done, if he return the conqueror: then am I the prisoner, and his bed my jail; from the loathed warmth whereof deliver me, and supply the place for your labor.

Your wife, (so I would say) and your affectionate servant,

'GONERIL.'

O undistinguish'd space of woman's will!

A plot upon her virtuous husband's life;

And the exchange, my brother!-Here, in the sands,

Thee I'll rake up,1 the post unsanctified

Of murderous lechers; and, in the mature time,
With this ungracious paper strike the sight
Of the death-practised duke: for him 'tis well,
That of thy death and business I can tell.

[Exit Edgar, dragging out the body. Glos. The king is mad. How stiff is my vile

sense,

1 I will cover thee.

That I stand up, and have ingenious feeling

Of my huge sorrows! Better I were distract:
So should my thoughts be sever'd from my griefs;
And woes, by wrong imaginations, lose

The knowlege of themselves.

Re-enter EDgar.

Edg.

Give me your hand :

Far off, methinks, I hear the beaten drum.
Come, father, I'll bestow you with a friend.

[Exeunt.

SCENE VII.

A tent in the French camp. LEAR on a bed, asleep ; PHYSICIAN, GENTLEMAN, and others attending. Enter CORDELIA and KENT.

Cor. O thou good Kent, how shall I live, and

work,

To match thy goodness? My life will be too short, And every measure fail me.

Kent. To be acknowleged, madam, is o'erpaid.

All my reports go with the modest truth;

Nor more, nor clipp'd, but so.

Cor.

Be better suited: 1

These weeds are memories 2 of those worser hours;

I pr'ythee, put them off.

Kent.

Pardon me, dear madam;

1 Dressed.

2 For memorials.

Yet to be known, shortens my made intent:
My boon I make it, that you know me not,
Till time and I think meet.

Cor. Then be it so, my good lord.-How does

the king?

Phy. Madam, sleeps still.

Cor. O you kind gods,

[to the Physician.

Cure this great breach in his abused nature!
The untuned and jarring senses, O, wind up
Of this child-changed father!

Phy.
So please your majesty,
That we may wake the king? he hath slept long.
Cor. Be govern'd by your knowlege, and proceed
I' the sway of your own will. Is he array'd?

Gen. Ay, madam; in the heaviness of his sleep, We put fresh garments on him.

Phy. Be by, good madam, when we do awake

him;

I doubt not of his temperance.

Cor.

Very well.

Phy. Please you, draw near.-Louder the music

there.

Cor. O my dear father! Restoration, hang

Thy medicine on my lips;
Repair those violent harms,

and let this kiss

Have in thy reverence made!

Kent.

that my two sisters

Kind and dear princess!

Cor. Had you not been their father, these white

flakes

Had challenged pity of them. Was this a face

To be exposed against the warring winds?

To stand against the deep dread-bolted thunder,
In the most terrible and nimble stroke

Of quick, cross lightning? to watch (poor perdu !1)
With this thin helm ? 2 Mine enemy's dog,

Though he had bit me, should have stood that night
Against my fire. And wast thou fain, poor father,
To hovel thee with swine, and rogues forlorn,
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.
Phy. Madam, do you; 'tis fittest.

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

Lear. You do me wrong, to take me out o' the

grave.

Thou art a soul in bliss; but I am bound

Upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears
Do scald like molten lead.

Cor.

Sir, do you know me?

Lear. You are a spirit, I know: when did you

die?

Cor. Still, still, far wide!

Phy. He's scarce awake; let him alone awhile. Lear. Where have I been? Where am I?-Fair daylight?

I am mightily abused: I should even die with pity, To see another thus.-I know not what to say.—

1 In allusion to the forlorn hope of an army, called in French enfans perdus. 2 Thin covering of hair.