Edgar.
Here, father, take the shadow of this tree
For your good host; pray, that the right may thrive.

If ever I return to you again,
I'll bring you comfort.

Gloster.
Grace go with you, sir! Exit Edgar, R.
How stiff is my vile sense,
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 imagination, lose
The knowledge of themselves. (alarum) A retreat.—Re-enter Edgar, R.

Edgar.
Away, old man! give thy hand: away!
King Lear hath lost, he and his daughter ta'en.
Give me thy hand; come on.

Gloster.
No farther, sir: a man may rot even here.

Edgar.
What! in ill thoughts again? Men must endure
Their going hence, even as their coming hither:
Ripeness is all. Come on.

Gloster.
And that's true too. Exeunt, L.

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