Stew.
A proclaim'd prize! most happy!
That eyeless head of thine was first fram'd flesh,
To raise my fortunes. Old unhappy traitor,
^{1 note}Briefly thy self remember: the sword is out,
That must destroy thee.

Glo.
Let thy friendly hand
Put strength enough to't.

Stew.
Wherefore, bold peasant,
Dar'st thou support a publish'd traitor? hence,
Lest that th' infection of his fortune take
Like hold on thee. Let go his arm.

Edg.
Chill not let go, Zir, without vurther 'casion.

Stew.
Let go, slave, or thou dy'st.

Edg.

Good gentleman, go your gate, and let poor volk pass: and 'chud ha' been zwagger'd out of my life, 'twould not ha' been zo long as 'tis by a vort-night. Nay, come not near th' old man: keep out, che vor'ye, or ice try whether your costard or my bat be the harder; chill be plain with you.

Stew.

Out, dunghill!

Edg.

Chill pick your teeth, Zir: come, no matter vor your foyns.

Stew.
Slave, thou hast slain me: villain, take my purse;
If ever thou wilt thrive, bury my body,

And give the letters, which thou find'st about me,
To Edmund Earl of Glo'ster: seek him out
Upon the English party: Oh, untimely death!— [Dies.

Edg.
I know thee well, a serviceable villain;
As duteous to the vices of thy Mistress,
As badness would desire.

Glo.
What, is he dead?

Edg.
Sit you down, father: rest you.
Let's see these pockets; the letters, that he speaks of,
May be my friends: he's dead; I'm only sorry,
He had no other death's-man. Let us see—
By your leave, gentle wax—and manners blame us not:
^{2 note}
To know our enemies' minds, we rip their hearts;
Their papers are more lawful. Reads the Letter.

Let our reciprocal Vows be remembred. You have many opportunities to cut him off: if your Will want not, time and place will be fruitfully offer'd. There is nothing done, if he return the conqueror. Then am I the prisoner, and his bed my goal; from the loathed warmth whereof deliver me, and supply the place for your labour.

Your (wife, so I would say) affectionate Servant,
Gonerill.

And the exchange my brother. Here, i'th' sands
Thee I'll rake up, the post unsanctified
Of murth'rous lechers: and in the mature time,
With this ungracious paper strike the sight
Of the death-practis'd Duke: for him 'tis well,
That of thy death and business I can tell.

Glo.
The King is mad: how stiff is my vile sense,
That I stand up, ^{4 note}and have ingenious Feeling
Of my huge sorrows! better I were distract,
So should my thoughts be sever'd from my griefs; [Drum afar off.
And woes, by wrong imaginations, lose
The knowledge of themselves.

Edg.
Give me your hand:
Far off, methinks, I hear the beaten drum.
Come, father, I'll bestow you with a friend. [Exeunt.

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