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Alexander Pope [1747], The works of Shakespear in eight volumes. The Genuine Text (collated with all the former Editions, and then corrected and emended) is here settled: Being restored from the Blunders of the first Editors, and the Interpolations of the two Last: with A Comment and Notes, Critical and Explanatory. By Mr. Pope and Mr. Warburton (Printed for J. and P. Knapton, [and] S. Birt [etc.], London) [word count] [S11301].
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SCENE VI. The Country, near Dover. Enter Glo'ster, and Edgar as a Peasant.

Glo.
When shall I come to th' top of that same hill?

Edg.
You do climb up it now. Look, how we labour.

Glo.
Methinks, the ground is even.

Edg.
Horrible steep.
Hark, do you hear the sea?

Glo.
No, truly.

-- 112 --

Edg.
Why then your other senses grow imperfect
By your eyes' anguish.

Glo.
So may it be, indeed.
Methinks, thy voice is alter'd; and thou speak'st
In better phrase and matter than thou didst.

Edg.
You're much deceiv'd: in nothing am I chang'd,
But in my garments.

Glo.
Sure you're better spoken.

Edg.
Come on, Sir, here's the place—stand still. &plquo;How fearful
&plquo;And dizzy 'tis, to cast one's eyes so low!
&plquo;The crows and choughs, that wing the midway air,
&plquo;Shew scarce so gross as beetles. Half way down
&plquo;Hangs one, that gathers Samphire; dreadful trade!
&plquo;Methinks, he seems no bigger than his head.
&plquo;The fisher-men, that walk upon the beach,
&plquo;Appear like mice; and yond tall anchoring bark,
&plquo;Diminish'd to her cock; her cock, a buoy
&plquo;Almost too small for sight. The murmuring surge,
&plquo;That on th' unnumbred 6 noteidle pebbles chafes,
&plquo;Cannot be heard so high. I'll look no more,
&plquo;Lest my brain turn, and the deficient sight,
&plquo;Topple down headlong.&prquo;

Glo.
Set me, where you stand,

Edg.
Give me your hand: you're now within a foot
Of th' extream verge: 7 note


for all below the moon
Would I not leap outright.

-- 113 --

Glo.
Let go my hand:
Here, friend,'s another purse, in it a Jewel
Well worth a poor man's taking. Fairies, and Gods,
Prosper it with thee! Go thou further off,
Bid me farewel, and let me hear thee going.

Edg.
Now fare ye well, good Sir.
[Seems to go.

Glo.
With all my heart.

Edg.
Why do I trifle thus with his despair?
'Tis done to cure it.

&wlquo;Glo.
&wlquo;O you mighty Gods!
&wlquo;This world I do renounce; and in your sights
&wlquo;Shake patiently my great affliction off:
&wlquo;If I could bear it longer, and not fall
&wlquo;To quarrel with your great opposeless Wills,
&wlquo;My snuff and loathed part of nature should
&wlquo;Burn itself out.&wrquo; If Edgar live, O bless him!
Now, fellow, fare thee well.
[He leaps, and falls along.

Edg.
Good Sir, farewel.
And yet I know not how Conceit may rob
The treasury of life, when life itself
Yields to the theft. Had he been where he thought,
By this, had thought been past.—Alive or dead?
Hoa, you, hear you, friend! Sir! Sir! speak!
Thus might he pass, indeed—yet he revives.
What are you, Sir?

Glo.
Away, and let me die.

Edg.
Had'st thou been aught but Goss'mer, feathers, air,
So many fathom down precipitating,
Thou'd'st shiver'd like an egg: but thou dost breathe,
Hast heavy substance, bleed'st not; speak, art sound?
8 noteTen masts attacht make not the altitude,

-- 114 --


Which thou hast perpendicularly fall'n.
Thy life's a miracle. Speak yet again.

Glo.
But have I fall'n, or no?

Edg.
From the dread summit of this chalky bourn?
Look up a-height, the shrill-gorg'd Lark so far
Cannot be seen or heard: do but look up.

Glo.
Alack, I have no eyes.
&wlquo;Is wretchedness depriv'd that benefit,
&wlquo;To end itself by death? 'twas yet some comfort,
&wlquo;When misery could beguile the tyrant's rage,
&wlquo;And frustrate his proud will.&wrquo;

Edg.
Give me your arm.
Up, so—how is't? feel you your legs? you stand.

Glo.
Too well, too well.

Edg.
This is above all strangeness.
Upon the crown o' th' cliff, what thing was that,
Which parted from you?

Glo.
A poor unfortunate beggar.

Edg.
As I stood here, below, methought, his eyes
Were two full moons; he had a thousand noses,
9 noteHorns welk'd, and wav'd like the enridged sea:
It was some fiend. Therefore, thou happy father,
1 noteThink, that the clearest gods, who make them honours
Of men's impossibilities, have preserv'd thee.

Glo.
I do remember now: henceforth I'll bear
Affliction, 'till it do cry out itself,
Enough, enough, and die. That thing you speak of,
I took it for a man; often 'twould say,
The fiend, the fiend—he led me to that place.

Edg.
Bear free and patient thoughts.

-- 115 --

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Alexander Pope [1747], The works of Shakespear in eight volumes. The Genuine Text (collated with all the former Editions, and then corrected and emended) is here settled: Being restored from the Blunders of the first Editors, and the Interpolations of the two Last: with A Comment and Notes, Critical and Explanatory. By Mr. Pope and Mr. Warburton (Printed for J. and P. Knapton, [and] S. Birt [etc.], London) [word count] [S11301].
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