# The History of King Lear/Act III

SCENE, A Desert Heath.
[Enter Lear and Kent in the Storm.]
Lear.
    Blow Winds and burst your Cheeks, rage louder yet,
    Fantastick Lightning singe, singe my white Head;
    Spout Cataracts, and Hurricanos fall
    Till you have drown'd the Towns and Palaces
    Of proud ingratefull Man.
Kent.
    Not all my best intreaties can perswade him
    Into some needfull shelter, or to 'bide
    This poor slight Cov'ring on his aged Head
    Expos'd to this wild war of Earth and Heav'n.
Lear.
    Rumble thy fill, fight Whirlwind, Rain and Fire:
    Not Fire, Wind, Rain or Thunder are my Daughters:
    I tax not you ye Elements with unkindness;
    I never gave you Kingdoms, call'd you Children,
    You owe me no Obedience, then let fall
    Your horrible pleasure, here I stand your Slave,
    A poor, infirm, weak and despis'd old man;
    Yet I will call you servile Ministers,
    That have with two pernicious Daughters join'd
    Their high-engendred Battle against a Head
    So Old and White as mine, Oh! oh! 'tis Foul.
Kent.
    Hard by, Sir, is a Hovel that will lend
    Some shelter from this Tempest.
Lear.
    I will forget my Nature, what? so kind a Father,
    I, there's the point.
Kent.
    Consider, good my Liege, Things that love Night
    Love not such Nights as this; these wrathfull Skies
    Frighten the very wanderers o'th' Dark,
    And make 'em keep their Caves; such drenching Rain,
    Such Sheets of Fire, such Claps of horrid Thunder,
    Such Groans of roaring Winds have ne're been known.
Lear.
    Let the Great Gods,
    That keep this dreadfull pudder o're our Heads
    Find out their Enemies now, tremble thou Wretch
    That hast within thee undiscover'd Crimes.
    Hide, thou bloody Hand,
    Thou perjur'd Villain, holy, holy Hypocrite,
    That drinkst the Widows Tears, sigh now and cry
    These dreadfull Summoners Grace, I am a Man
    More sin'd against than sinning.
Kent.
    Good Sir, to th' Hovell.
Lear.
    My wit begins to burn,
    Come on my Boy, how dost my Boy? art Cold?
    I'm cold my Self; shew me this Straw, my Fellow,
    The Art of our Necessity is strange,
    And can make vile things precious; my poor Knave,
[Lond. Storm.]
    Cold as I am at Heart, I've one place There
    That's sorry yet for Thee.
[Exit.]
[Gloster's Palace. Enter Bastard.]
Bast.
    The Storm is in our louder Rev'lings drown'd.
    Thus wou'd I Reign cou'd I but mount a Throne.
    The Riots of these proud imperial Sisters
    Already have impos'd the galling Yoke
    Of Taxes, and hard Impositions on
    The drudging Peasants Neck, who bellow out
    Their loud Complaints in Vain — Triumphant Queens!
    With what Assurance do they tread the Crowd.
    O for a Tast of such Majestick Beauty,
    Which none but my hot Veins are fit t' engage;
    Nor are my Wishes desp'rate, for ev'n now
    During the Banquet I observed their Glances
    Shot thick at me, and as they left the Room
    Each cast by stealth a kind inviting Smile,
    The happy Earnest— ha!
[Two Servants from several Entrances deliver him each a Letter, and Ex.]
    [Reads.] Where merit is so Transparent, not to behold it
    Were Blindness, and not to reward it Ingratitude.
       Gonerill.
    Enough! Blind, and Ingratefull should I be
    Not to Obey the Summons of This Oracle.
    Now for a Second Letter.
[Opens the other.]
    If Modesty be not your Enemy, doubt not to
    Find me your Friend.
       Regan.
    Excellent Sybill! O my glowing Blood!
    I am already sick of expectation,
    And pant for the Possession — here Gloster comes
    With Bus'ness on his Brow; be husht my Joys.
Glost.
    I come to seek thee, Edmund, to impart a business of Importance; I knew thy loyal Heart is toucht to see the Cruelty of these ingratefull Daughters against our royal Master.
Bast.
    Most Savage and Unnatural.
Glost.
    This change in the State sits uneasie. The Commons repine aloud at their female Tyrants, already they Cry out for the re-installment of their good old King, whose Injuries I fear will inflame 'em into Mutiny.
Bast.
    'Tis to be hopt, not fear'd.
Glost.
    Thou hast it Boy, 'tis to be hopt indeed,
    On me they cast their Eyes, and hourly Court me
    To lead 'em on, and whilst this Head is Mine
    I am Theirs, a little covert Craft, my Boy,
    And then for open Action, 'twill be Employment
    Worthy such honest daring Souls as Thine.
    Thou, Edmund, art my trusty Emissary,
    Haste on the Spur at the first break of day
    With these Dispatches to the Duke of Combray;
[Gives him Letters.]
    You know what mortal Feuds have alwaies flam'd
    Between this Duke of Cornwall's Family, and his
    Full Twenty thousand Mountaners
    Th' invetrate Prince will send to our Assistance.
    Dispatch; Commend us to his Grace, and Prosper.
Bast. [Aside.]
    Yes, credulous old Man,
    I will commend you to his Grace,
    His Grace the Duke of Cornwall — instantly
    To shew him these Contents in thy own Character,
    And Seal'd with thy own Signet; then forthwith
    The Chol'rick Duke gives Sentence on thy Life;
    And to my hand thy vast Revenues fall
    To glut my Pleasure that till now has starv'd.
[Gloster going off is met by Cordelia entring, Bastard observing at a Distance.]
Cord.
    Turn, Gloster, Turn, by all the sacred Pow'rs
    I do conjure you give my Griefs a Hearing,
    You must, you shall, nay I am sure you will,
    For you were always stil'd the Just and Good.
Glost.
    What wou'dst thou, Princess? rise and speak thy Griefs.
Cord.
    Nay, you shall promise to redress 'em too,
    Or here I'll kneel for ever; I intreat
    Thy succour for a Father and a King,
    An injur'd Father and an injur'd King.
Bast.
    O charming Sorrow! how her Tears adorn her
    Like Dew on Flow'rs, but she is Virtuous,
    And I must quench this hopeless Fire i'th' Kindling.
Glost.
    Consider, Princess,
    For whom thou begg'st, 'tis for the King that wrong'd Thee.
Cord.
    O name not that; he did not, cou'd not wrong me.
    Nay muse not, Gloster, for it is too likely
    This injur'd King e're this is past your Aid,
    And gone Distracted with his savage Wrongs.
Bast.
    I'll gaze no more— and yet my Eyes are Charm'd.
Cord.
    Or what if it be Worse? can there be Worse?
    As 'tis too probable this furious Night
    Has pierc'd his tender Body, the bleak Winds
    And cold Rain chill'd, or Lightning struck him Dead;
    If it be so your Promise is discharg'd,
    And I have only one poor Boon to beg,
    That you'd Convey me to his breathless Trunk,
    With my torn Robes to wrap his hoary Head,
    With my torn Hair to bind his Hands and Feet,
    Then with a show'r of Tears
    To wash his Clay-smear'd Cheeks, and Die beside him.
Glost.
    Rise, fair Cordelia, thou hast Piety
    Enough t' attone for both thy Sisters Crimes.
    I have already plotted to restore
    My injur'd Master, and thy Vertue tells me
    We shall succeed, and suddenly.
[Exit.]
Cord.
    Dispatch, Arante,
    Provide me a Disguise, we'll instantly
    Go seek the King, and bring him some Relief.
Ar.
    How, Madam? are you Ignorant
    Of what your impious Sisters have decreed?
    Immediate Death for any that relieve him.
Cord.
    I cannot dread the Furies in this case.
Ar.
    In such a Night as This? Consider, Madam,
    For many Miles about there's scarce a Bush
    To shelter in.
Cord.
    Therefore no shelter for the King,
    And more our Charity to find him out:
    What have not Women dar'd for vicious Love,
    And we'll be shining Proofs that they can dare
    For Piety as much; blow Winds, and Lightnings fall,
    Bold in my Virgin Innocence, I'll flie
    My Royal Father to Relieve, or Die.
[Exit.]
Bast.
    Provide me a Disguise, we'll instantly
    Go seek the King:— ha! ha! a lucky change,
    That Vertue which I fear'd would be my hindrance
    Has prov'd the Bond to my Design;
    I'll bribe two Ruffians that shall at a distance follow,
    And seise 'em in some desert Place, and there
    Whilst one retains her t' other shall return
    T' inform me where she's Lodg'd; I'll be disguis'd too.
    Whilst they are poching for me I'll to the Duke
    With these Dispatches, then to th'Field
    Where like the vig'rous Jove I will enjoy
    This Semele in a Storm, 'twill deaf her Cries
    Like Drums in Battle, lest her Groans shou'd pierce
    My pittying Ear, and make the amorous Fight less fierce.
[Exit.]
[Storm still. The Field Scene. Enter Lear and Kent.]
Kent.
    Here is the place, my Lord; good my Lord enter;
    The Tyranny of this open Night 's too rough
    For Nature to endure.
Lear.
    Let me alone.
Kent.
    Good my Lord, enter.
Lear.
    Wilt break my Heart?
Kent.
    Beseech you, Sir.
Lear.
    Thou think'st 'tis much that this contentious Storm
    Invades us to the Skin so, 'tis to thee
    But where the greater Malady is fixt
    The lesser is scarce felt: the Tempest in my Mind
    Do's from my Senses take all feeling else
    Save what beats there. Filial Ingratitude!
    Is it not as this Mouth shou'd tear this Hand
    For lifting Food to't? — but I'll punish home.
    No, I will weep no more; in such a Night
    To shut me out— pour on, I will endure
    In such a Night as this: O Regan, Gonerill,
    Your old kind Father whose frank heart gave All,
    O that way madness lies, let me shun that,
    No more of that.
Kent.
    See, my Lord, here's the Entrance.
Lear.
    Well, I'll go in
    And pass it all, I'll pray and then I'll sleep:
    Poor naked Wretches wherefor'ere you are,
    That 'bide the pelting of this pittiless Storm,
    How shall your houseless Heads and unfed Sides
    Sustain this Shock? your raggedness defend you
    From Seasons such as These.
    O I have ta'ne too little Care of this,
    Take Physick, Pomp,
    Expose thy self to feel what Wretches feel,
    That thou may'st cast the superflux to them,
    And shew the Heav'ns more Just.
Edgar [in the Hovell.]
    Five Fathom and a half, poor Tom.
Kent.
    What art thou that dost grumble there i' th' Straw?
    Come forth.
Edg.
    Away! The foul Fiend follows me— through the sharp Haw-thorn blows the cold Wind — Mum, Go to thy Bed and warm Thee.— [Aside] ha! what do I see? by all my Griefs the poor old King beheaded,
    And drencht in this fow Storm, professing Syren,
    Are all your Protestations come to this?
Lear.
    Tell me, Fellow, dist thou give all to thy Daughters?
Edg.
    Who gives any thing to poor Tom, whom the foul Fiend has led through Fire and through Flame, through Bushes and Boggs, that has laid Knives under his Pillow, and Halters in his Pue, that has made him proud of Heart to ride on a Bay-trotting Horse over four inch'd Bridges, to course his own Shadow for a Traytor. — bless thy five Wits, Tom's a cold [Shivers.] bless thee from Whirlwinds, Star-blasting and Taking: do poor Tom some Charity, whom the foul Fiend vexes— Sa, sa, there I could have him now, and there, and there agen.
Lear.
    Have his Daughters brought him to this pass?
    Cou'dst thou save Nothing? didst thou give 'em All?
Kent.
    He has no Daughters, Sir.
Lear.
    Death, Traytor, nothing cou'd have subdu'd Nature
    To such a Lowness but his unkind Daughters.
Edg.
    Pillicock sat upon Pillicock Hill; Hallo, hallo, hallo.
Lear.
    Is it the fashion that discarded Fathers
    Should have such little Mercy on their Flesh?
    Iudicious punishment, 'twas this Flesh begot
    Those Pelican Daughters.
Edg.
    Take heed of the fow Fiend, obey thy Parents, keep thy Word justly, Swear not, commit not with Man's sworn Spouse, set not thy sweet Heart on proud Array: Tom's a Cold.
Lear.
    What hast thou been?
Edg.
    A Serving-man proud of Heart, that curl'd my Hair, us'd Perfume and Washes, that serv'd the Lust of my Mistresses Heart, and did the Act of Darkness with her. Swore as many Oaths as I spoke Words, and broke 'em all in the sweet Face of Heaven: Let not the Paint, nor the Patch, nor the rushing of Silks betray thy poor Heart to Woman, keep thy Foot out of Brothels, thy Hand out of Plackets, thy Pen from Creditors Books, and defie the foul Fiend — still through the Hawthorn blows the cold Wind — Sess, Suum, Mun, Nonny, Dolphin my Boy — hist! the Boy, Sesey! soft let him Trot by.
Lear.
    Death, thou wert better in thy Grave, than thus to answer with thy uncover'd Body this Extremity of the Sky. And yet consider him well, and Man's no more than This; Thou art indebted to the Worm for no Silk, to the Beast for no Hide, to the Cat for no Perfume — ha! here's Two of us are Sophisticated; Thou art the Thing it self, unaccommated Man is no more than such a poor bare forkt Animal as thou art.
    Off, Off, ye vain Disguises, empty Lendings,
    I'll be my Original Self, quick, quick, Uncase me.
Kent.
    Defend his Wits, good Heaven!
Lear.
    One point I had forgot; what's your Name?
Edg.
    Poor Tom that eats the swimming Frog, the Wall-nut, and the Water-nut; that in the fury of his Heart when the foul Fiend rages eats Cow dung for Sallets, swallows the old Rat and the Ditch-dog, that drinks the green Mantle of the standing Pool that's whipt from Tithing to Tithing; that has Three Suits to his Back, Six Shirts to his Body,
       Horse to Ride, and Weapon to wear,
       But Rats and Mice, and such small Deer
       Have been Tom's Food for Seven long Year.
    Beware, my Follower; Peace, Smulkin; Peace, thou foul Fiend.
Lear.
    One word more, but be sure true Councel; tell me, is a Madman a Gentleman, or a Yeoman?
Kent.
    I fear'd 't wou'd come to This, his Wits are gone.
Edg.
    Fraterreto calls me, and tells me, Nero is an Angler in the Lake of Darkness. Pray, Innocent, and beware the foul Fiend.
Lear.
    Right, ha! ha! was it not pleasant to have a Thousand with red hot Spits come hizzing in upon 'em?
Edg.
    My Tears begin to take his part so much
    They marr my Counterfeiting.
Lear.
    The little Dogs and all, Trey, Blanch and Sweet-heart, see they Bark at me.
Edg.
    Tom will throw his Head at 'em; Avaunt ye Curs.
          Be thy Mouth or black or white,
          Tooth that poysons if it bite,
          Mastiff, Grey-hound, Mungrill, Grim,
          Hound or Spanniel, Brach or Hym,
          Bob-tail, Tight, or Trundle-tail,
          Tom will make 'em weep and wail,
          For with throwing thus my Head
          Dogs leap the Hatch, and All are fled.
    Ud, de, de, de. Se, se, se. Come march to Wakes, and Fairs, and Market-Towns,— poor Tom, thy Horn is dry.
Lear.
    You Sir, I entertain you for One of my Hundred, only I do not like the fashion of your Garments, you'll say they're Persian, but no matter, let 'em be chang'd.
[Enter Gloster.]
Edg.
    This is the foul Flibertigibet, he begins at Curfew and walks at first Cock, he gives the Web and the Pin, knits the Elflock, squints the Eye, and makes the Hair-lip, mildews the white Wheat, and hurts the poor Creature of the Earth;
          Swithin footed Thrice the Cold,
          He met the Night-mare and her Nine-fold,
             'Twas there he did appoint her;
          He bid her alight and her Troth plight,
             And arroynt the Witch arroynt her.
Glost.
    What, has your Grace no better Company?
Edg.
    The Prince of Darkness is a Gentleman; Modo he is call'd, and Mahu.
Glost.
    Go with me, Sir, hard by I have a Tenant.
    My Duty cannot suffer me to obey in all your Daughters hard Commands, who have enjoyn'd me to make fast my Doors, and let this Tyrannous Night take hold upon you. Yet have I ventur'd to come seek you out, and bring you where both Fire and Food is ready.
Kent.
    Good my Lord, take his offer.
Lear.
    First let me talk with this Philosopher,
    Say, Stagirite, what is the Cause of Thunder.
Glost.
    Beseech you, Sir, go with me.
Lear.
    I'll talk a Word with this same Learned Theban.
    What is your Study?
Edg.
    How to prevent the Fiend, and to kill Vermin.
Lear.
    Let me ask you a Word in private.
Kent.
    His Wits are quite unsetled; Good Sir, let's force him hence.
Glost.
    Canst blame him? his Daughters seek his Death; This Bedlam but disturbs him the more. Fellow, be gone.
Edg.
    Child Rowland to the dark Tow'r came,
    His Word was still Fie, Fo, and Fum,
    I smell the Bloud of a British Man.— Oh Torture!
[Exit.]
Glost.
    Now, I prethee Friend, let's take him in our Arms, and carry him where he shall meet both Welcome, and Protection. Good sir, along with us.
Lear.
    You say right, let 'em Anatomize Regan, see what breeds about her Heart; is there any Cause in Nature for these hard Hearts?
Kent.
    Beseech your Grace.
Lear.
    Hist! —Make no Noise, make no Noise— so so; we'll to Supper i'th' Morning.
[Exeunt.]
[Enter Cordelia and Arante.]
Ar.
    Dear Madam, rest ye here, our search is Vain,
    Look here's a shed, beseech ye, enter here.
Cord.
    Prethee go in thy self, seek thy own Ease,
    Where the Mind's free, the Body's Delicate:
    This Tempest but diverts me from the Thought
    Of what wou'd hurt me more.
[Enter Two Ruffians.]
1 Ruff.
    We have dog'd 'em far enough, this Place is private,
    I'll keep 'em Prisoners here within this Hovell,
    Whilst you return and bring Lord Edmund Hither;
    But help me first to House 'em.
2 Ruff.
    Nothing but this dear Devil
[Shows Gold.]
    Shou'd have drawn me through all this Tempest;
    But to our Work.
[They seize Cordelia and Arante, who Shriek out.]
    Soft, Madam, we are Friends, dispatch, I say.
Cord.
    Help, murder, help! Gods! some kind Thunderbolt
    To strike me Dead.
[Enter Edgar.]
Edg.
    What Cry was That? — ha, Women seiz'd by Ruffians?
    Is this a Place and Time for Villany?
    Avaunt ye Bloud-hounds.
[Drives 'em with his Quarter-staff.]
Both.
    The Devil, the Devil!
[Run off.]
Edg.
    O speak, what are ye that appear to be
    O'th' tender Sex, and yet unguarded Wander
    Through the dead Mazes of this dreadfull Night,
    Where (tho' at full) the Clouded Moon scarce darts
    Imperfect Glimmerings.
Cord.
    First say what art thou
    Our Guardian Angel, that wer't pleas'd t' assume
    That horrid shape to fright the Ravishers?
    We'll kneel to Thee.
Edg.
    O my tumultuous Bloud!
    By all my trembling Veins Cordelia's Voice!
    'Tis she her self! —My Senses sure conform
    To my wild Garb, and I am Mad indeed.
Cord.
    Whate're thou art, befriend a wretched Virgin,
    And if thou canst direct our weary search.
Edg.
    Who relieves poor Tom, that sleeps on the Nettle, with the Hedge-pig for his Pillow.
          Whilst Smug ply'd the Bellows
          She truckt with her Fellows,
             The Freckle-fac't Mab
             Was a Blouze and a Drab,
    Yet Swithin made Oberon jealous— Oh! Torture.
Ar.
    Alack, Madam, a poor wandring Lunatick.
Cord.
    And yet his Language seem'd but now well temper'd.
    Speak, Friend, to one more wretched than thy self,
    And if thou hast one Interval of sense,
    Inform us if thou canst where we may find
    A poor old Man, who through this Heath has stray'd
    The tedious Night— Speak, sawest thou such a One?
Edg. [Aside]
    The King, her Father, whom she's come to seek
    Through all the Terrors of this Night. O Gods!
    That such amazing Piety, such Tenderness
    Shou'd yet to me be Cruel —
    Yes, Fair One, such a One was lately here,
    And is convey'd by some that came to seek him,
    T' a Neighb'ring Cottage; but distinctly where,
    I know not.
Cord.
    Blessings on 'em,
    Let's find him out, Arante, for thou seest
    We are in Heavens Protection.
[Going off.]
Edg.
    O Cordelia!
Cord.
    Ha! — Thou knowst my Name.
Edg.
    As you did once know Edgar's.
Cord.
    Edgar!
Edg.
    The poor Remains of Edgar, what your Scorn
    Has left him.
Cord.
    Do we wake, Arante?
Edg.
    My Father seeks my Life, which I preserv'd
    In hopes of some blest Minute to oblidge
    Distrest Cordelia, and the Gods have giv'n it;
    That Thought alone prevail'd with me to take
    This Frantick Dress, to make the Earth my Bed,
    With these bare Limbs all change of Seasons bide,
    Noons scorching Heat, and Midnights piercing Cold,
    To feed on Offals, and to drink with Herds,
    To Combat with the Winds, and be the Sport
    Of Clowns, or what's more wretched yet, their Pity.
Ar.
    Was ever Tale so full of Misery!
Edg.
    But such a Fall as this I grant was due
    To my aspiring Love, for 'twas presumptuous,
    Though not presumptuously persu'd;
    For well you know I wore my Flames conceal'd,
    And silent as the Lamps that Burn in Tombs,
    'Till you perceiv'd my Grief, with modest Grace
    Drew forth the Secret, and then seal'd my Pardon.
Cord.
    You had your Pardon, nor can you Challenge more.
Edg.
    What do I Challenge more?
    Such Vanity agrees not with these Rags;
    When in my prosp'rous State rich Gloster's Heir,
    You silenc'd my Pretences, and enjoyn'd me
    To trouble you upon that Theam no more;
    Then what Reception must Love's Language find
    From these bare Limbs and Beggers humble Weeds?
Cord.
    Such as the Voice of Pardon to a Wretch Condemn'd;
    Such as the Shouts
    Of succ'ring Forces to a Town besieg'd.
Edg.
    Ah! what new Method now of Cruelty?
Cord.
    Come to my Arms, thou dearest, best of Men,
    And take the kindest Vows that e're were spoke
    By a protesting Maid.
Edg.
    Is't possible?
Cord.
    By the dear Vital Stream that baths my Heart,
    These hallow'd Rags of Thine, and naked Vertue,
    These abject Tassels, these fantastick Shreds,
    (Ridiculous ev'n to the meanest Clown)
    To me are dearer than the richest Pomp
    Of purple Monarchs.
Edg.
    Generous charming Maid,
    The Gods alone that made, can rate thy Worth!
    This most amazing Excellence shall be
    Fame's Triumph, in succeeding Ages, when
    Thy bright Example shall adorn the Scene,
    And teach the World Perfection.
Cord.
    Cold and weary,
    We'll rest a while, Arante, on that Straw,
    Then forward to find out the poor Old King.
Edg.
    Look I have Flint and Steel, the Implements
    Of wandring Lunaticks, I'll strike a Light,
    And make a Fire beneath this Shed, to dry
    Thy Storm-drencht Garments, e're thou Lie to rest thee;
    Then Fierce and Wakefull as th' Hesperian Dragon,
    I'll watch beside thee to protect thy Sleep;
    Mean while, the Stars shall dart their kindest Beams,
    And Angels Visit my Cordelia's Dreams
[Exeunt.]
SCENE, The Palace.
[Enter Cornwall, Regan, Bastard, Servants. Cornwall with Gloster's Letters.]
Duke.
    I will have my Revenge e're I depart his house.
    Regan, see here, a Plot upon our State,
    'Tis Gloster's Character, that has betray'd
    His double Trust of Subject, and of Ost.
Reg.
    Then double be our Vengeance, this confirms
    Th'Intelligence that we now now receiv'd,
    That he has been this Night to seek the King;
    But who, Sir, was the kind Discoverer?
Duke.
    Our Eagle, quick to spy, and fierce to seize,
    Our trusty Edmund.
Reg.
    'Twas a noble Service;
    O Cornwall, take him to thy deepest Trust,
    And wear him as a Jewel at thy Heart.
Bast.
    Think, Sir, how hard a Fortune I sustain,
    That makes me thus repent of serving you! [Weeps.]
    O that this Treason had not been, or I
    Not the Discoverer.
Duke.
    Edmund, Thou shalt find
    A Father in our Love, and from this Minute
    We call thee Earl of Gloster; but there yet
    Remains another Justice to be done,
    And that's to punish this discarded Traytor;
    But least thy tender Nature shou'd relent
    At his just Sufferings, nor brooke the Sight,
    We wish thee to withdraw.
Reg. [To Edmund Aside]
    The Grotto, Sir, within the lower Grove,
    Has Privacy to suit a Mourner's Thought.
Bast.
    And there I may expect a Comforter,
    Ha, Madam?
Reg.
    What may happen, Sir, I know not,
    But 'twas a Friends Advice.
[Ex. Bastard.]
Duke.
    Bring in the Traytour.
[Gloster brought in.]
    Bind fast his Arms.
Glost.
    What mean your Graces?
    You are my Guests, pray do me no foul Play.
Duke.
    Bind him, I say, hard, harder yet.
Reg.
    Now, Traytor, thou shalt find—
Duke.
    Speak, Rebel, where hast thou sent the King?
    Whom spight of our Decree thou saw'st last Night.
Glost.
    I'm tide to th'Stake, and I must stand the Course.
Reg.
    Say where, and why thou hast conceal'd him.
Glost.
    Because I wou'd not see thy cruel Hands
    Tear out his poor old Eyes, nor thy fierce Sister
    Carve his anointed Flesh; but I shall see
    The swift wing'd Vengeance overtake such Children.
Duke.
    See't shalt thou never, Slaves perform your Work,
    Out with those treacherous Eyes, dispatch, I say,
    If thou seest Vengeance —
Glost.
    He that will think to live 'till he be old,
    Give me some help— O cruel! oh! ye Gods.
[They put out his Eyes.]
Serv.
    Hold, hold, my Lord, I bar your Cruelty,
    I cannot love your safety and give way
    To such a barbarous Practise.
Duke.
    Ha, my Villain.
Serv.
    I have been your Servant from my Infancy,
    But better Service have I never done you
    Then with this Boldness—
Duke.
    Take thy Death, Slave.
Serv.
    Nay, then Revenge whilst yet my Bloud is Warm.
[Fight.]
Reg.
    Help here— are you not hurt, my Lord?
Glost.
    Edmund, enkindle all the sparks of Nature
    To quit this horrid Act.
Reg.
    Out, treacherous Villain,
    Thou call'st on him that Hates thee, it was He
    That broacht thy Treason, shew'd us thy Dispatches;
    There — read, and save the Cambrian Prince a Labour,
    If thy Eyes fail thee call for Spectacles.
Glost.
    O my Folly!
    Than Edgar was abus'd, kind Gods forgive me that.
Reg.
    How is't, my Lord?
Duke.
    Turn out that Eye-less Villain, let him smell
    His way to Cambray, throw this Slave upon a Dunghill. Regan,
    I Bleed apace, give me your Arm.
[Exeunt.]
Glost.
    All Dark and Comfortless!
    Where are those various Objects that but now
    Employ'd my busie Eyes? where those Eyes?
    Dead are their piercing Rays that lately shot
    O're flowry Vales to distant Sunny Hills,
    And drew with Joy the vast Horizon in.
    These groping Hands are now my only Guids,
    And Feeling all my Sight.
       O Misery! what words can sound my Grief?
    Shut from the Living whilst among the Living;
    Dark as the Grave amidst the bustling World.
    At once from Business and from Pleasure bar'd;
    No more to view the Beauty of the Spring,
    Nor see the Face of Kindred, or of Friend.
    Yet still one way th' extreamest Fate affords,
    And ev'n the Blind can find the Way to Death.
    Must I then tamely Die, and unreveng'd?
    So Lear may fall: No, with these bleeding Rings
    I will present me to the pittying Crowd,
    And with the Rhetorick of these dropping Veins
    Enflame 'em to Revenge their King and me;
    Then when the Glorious Mischief is on Wing,
    This Lumber from some Precipice I'll throw,
    And dash it on the ragged Flint below;
    Whence my freed Soul to her bright Sphear shall fly,
    Through boundless Orbs, eternal Regions spy,
    And like the Sun, be All one glorious Eye.
[Ex.]
End of the Third Act.