Glo.
I'm sorry for thee, friend; 'tis the Duke's pleasure,
Whose disposition all the world well knows
Will not be rubb'd nor stop'd. I'll intreat for thee.

Kent.
Pray do not, Sir. I've watch'd and travell'd hard,
Some time I shall sleep out, the rest I'll whistle:
A good man's fortune may grow out at heels;
Give you good morrow.

Glo.
The Duke's to blame in this, 'twill be ill taken. [Exit.

Kent.
Good King, that must approve the common saw,
Thou out of heaven's benediction com'st
To the warm sun.
Approach thou beacon to this under globe, [Looking up to the moon.
That by thy comfortable beams I may
Peruse this letter. Nothing almost sees miracles
But misery. I know 'tis from Cordelia,
Who hath most fortunately been inform'd
Of my obscured course. I shall find time
From this enormous state, and seek to give
Losses their remedies. All weary and o'er-watch'd,
Take vantage heavy eyes, not to behold
This shameful lodging.
Fortune, good night, smile once more, turn thy wheel. [He sleeps.

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