Cor.
Alack, 'tis he; why he was met ev'n now
As mad as the vext sea, singing aloud,
Crowned with flowers, and all the weeds that grow

In our sustaining corn—Their poor old father!
Oh sisters, sisters! shame of ladies! sisters!
Ha, Regan, Gonerill! what! i'th'storm! i'th'night?
Let pity ne'er believe it! Oh my heart!

Phys.
Take comfort, madam; there are means to cure him.

Cor.
No; 'tis too probable the furious storm
Has pierc'd his tender body past all cure;
And the bleak winds, cold rain, and sulph'rous light'ning,
Unsettled his care-wearied mind for ever.
Send forth a cent'ry, bring him to our eye;
Try all the art of man, all med'cine's power,
For the restoring his bereaved sense!
He that helps him, take all!

Phys.
Be patient, madam:
Our foster nurse of Nature is Repose,
The which he lacks; that to provoke in him
Are many lenient simples, which have power
To close the eye of anguish.

Cord.
All blest secrets,
All you unpublish'd virtues of the earth,
Spring with my tears; be aidant and remediate
In the good man's distress! seek, seek for him;
Lest his ungovern'd rage dissolve his life. [Exeunt Attendants.
If it be so, one only boon I beg;
That you'd convey me to his breathless trunk,
With my own hands to close a father's eyes,
With show'rs of tears to wash his clay-cold cheeks,
Then o'er his limbs, with one heart-rending sigh,
To breathe my spirit out, and die beside him. Enter a Messenger.

Mes.
News, madam:
The British pow'rs are marching hitherward.

Cor.
'Tis known before. Our preparation stands
In expectation of them. O dear father,
It is thy business that I go about: therefore great France

My mourning and important tears hath pitied.
No blown ambition doth our arms incite,
But love, dear love, and our ag'd father's right. [Exeunt.

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