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Who is too good to pity thee.
Glo. O my follies!

Then Edgar was abus'd.

Me that, and profper him!

Reg. Go thrust him out

Kind gods, forgive

At gates, and let him smell his way to Dover.

How is't, my lord, how look you?

Exit with Glo'fter.

Corn. I have receiv'd a hurt; follow me, lady.-Turn out that eyelefs villain; throw this flave Upon the dung-hill.-Regan, I bleed apace. Untimely comes this hurt. Give me your arm.

[Exit Corn. led by Regan.

1 Serv. I'll never care what Wickedness I do, If this Man come to Good.

2 Serv. If She live long,

And, in the End, meet the old courfe of Death,
Women will all turn Monsters.

1 Serv. Let's follow the old Earl, and get the Bedlam

To lead him where he would; his roguish Madness Allows itself to any Thing.

2 Serv. Go thou; I'll fetch fome Flax and whites

of Eggs

T' apply to's bleeding Face. Now, heav'n help him!

[Exeunt feverally.

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

An open Country.

Enter EDGAR.

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

YET better and d and flatter d. To be worft,

The loweft, moft dejected thing of Fortune,
Stands ftill in efperance: lives not in fear.
The lamentable change is from the beft;

The

The worst returns to laughter. Welcome then,
Thou unfubftantial air, that I embrace !

The wretch, that thou haft blown unto the worst,
Owes nothing to thy blasts.

Enter Glo'fter, led by an old man.

But who comes here?

My father poorly led? World, world, O world! But that thy ftrange Mutations make us hate thee, Life would not yield to age.

Old Man. O my good Lord, I have been your tenant, and father's tenant, these fourscore years. your Glo. 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.

Glo. I have no way, and therefore want no eyes: I ftumbled when I faw. Full oft 'tis feen, Our mean secures us; and our mere defecs Prove our commodities.-Q dear fon Edgar, The food of thy abused father's wrath; Might I but live to see thee in my Touch, I'd fay, I had eyes again!

Old Man. How now? who's there?

Edg. O 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.

Edg. And worfe I may be yet; the worft is not,

So long as we can fay, this is the worst.

Old Man. Fellow, where goeft?

Glo. Is it a beggar-man?

Old Man. Madman, and beggar too.

Glo. He has fome reason, else he could not beg.

I'th' laft 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,

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

Edg. How fhould this be?

Bad is the trade muft play the fool to forrow,
Ang'ishing itself and others.

Bless thee, mafter.

my fake,

Glo. Is that the naked fellow?
Old Man. Ay, my lord.

Glo. Get thee away: if, for

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 foul, Whom I'll intreat to lead me.

Old Man. Alack, Sir, he is mad.

Glo. 'Tis the time's plague, when madmen lead the blind:

Do as I bid, or rather do thy pleasure ;

Above the reft, be gone.

Old Man. I'll bring him the best 'parrel that I have, Come on't, what will.

Glo. Sirrah, naked fellow.

[Exit.

Edg. Poor Tom's a-cold;-* I cannot daub it further. Glo. Come hither, fellow.

Edg. And yet I muft;

Bless thy fweet eyes, they bleed.

Glo. Know'st thou the way to Dever?

Edg. Both ftile and gate, horfe-way and foot-path: poor Tom hath been scar'd out of his good wits. Blefs thee, good man, from the foul fiend. Five fiends have been in poor Tom at once; of Luft, as Obidicut; Hobbididen, Prince of dumbnefs; Mahu, of ftealing; Mohu, of murder; and Flibbertigibbet, of mopping and mowing; who fince poffeffes chamber-maids and waiting-women.

Glo. Here, take this purse, thou whom the heavens' plagues Have humbled to all ftrokes. That I am wretched, Makes thee the happier: heavens deal so ftill!

*

I cannot daub it-] i. e. Difguise.

Let

Let the fuperfluous, and luft dieted man,

That braves your ordinance, that will not fee Because he do's not feel, feel your power quickly : So diftribution fhall undo excess,

And each man have enough. Doft thou know Dover? Edg. Ay, mafter.

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

Bring me but to the very brim of it,

And I'll repair the misery, thou dost bear,
With fomething rich about me: from that place
I shall no leading need.
Edg. Give me thy arm;
Poor Tom fhall lead thee.

Gon.

SCENE

[Exeunt

II

The Duke of Albany's Palace,

Enter Gonerill, and Edmund.

WELCOME, my lord. I marvel, our mild hufband

WELC

Not met us on the way.

Enter Steward.

Now, where's your Master?

Stew. Madam, within; but never man fo chang'd:
I told him of the army that was landed :
He fmil'd at it. I told him, you were coming,
His answer was, the worse. Of Glofter's treachery,
And of the loyal fervice of his fon,

When I inform'd him, then he call'd me fot;
And told me, I had turn'd the wrong fide out.
What most he should dislike, feems pleasant to him;
What like, offenfive.

Gon. Then fhall you go no further.

It is the cowish terror of his fpirit,

That dares not undertake: he'll not feel wrongs,

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Which tie him to an answer; our wishes on the way May prove effects. Back, Edmund, to my brother; Haften his mufters, and conduct his powers.

I muft change arms at home, and give the distaff Into my husband's hands. This trusty servant Shall pafs between us: you ere long shall hear, If you dare venture in your own behalf,

A miftrefs's command. Wear this; fpare speech; Decline your head. This kifs, if it durft speak, Would stretch thy fpirits up into the air:

Conceive, and fare thee well.

Edm. Yours in the ranks of death.

Gon. My moft dear Glofter!

[Exit Edmund.

Oh, the ftrange difference of man, and man!

To thee a woman's fervices are due,

My fool ufurps my body,

Stew. Madam, here comes my lord.

Enter Albany.

Gon. I have been worth the whifle.

Alb. Oh, Gonerill,

You are not worth the duft which the rude wind
Blows in your face.-I fear your difpofition:
That Nature, which contemns its origine,

Cannot be border'd certain in itself;
She that herself will fliver, and disbranch,
From her material fap, perforce must wither,
And come to deadly use.

Gon. No more; 'tis foolish.

Alb. Wisdom and goodness to the vile seem vile ; Filths favour but themfelves

done;

What have you

Tygers, not daughters, what have you perform'd?
A father, and a gracious aged man,

Moft barb'rous, moft degenerate, have you madded.
Cou'd my good brother fuffer you to do it,
A man, a Prince by him fo benefited?

If that the heav'ns do not their visible Spirits.

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