Shakespeare's First Folio Part 617

Bast. I pant for life: some good I meane to do Despight of mine owne Nature. Quickly send, (Be briefe in it) to'th' Castle, for my Writ Is on the life of Lear, and on Cordelia: Nay, send in time

Alb. Run, run, O run

Edg. To who my Lord? Who ha's the Office?

Send thy token of repreeue

Bast. Well thought on, take my Sword, Giue it the Captaine

Edg. Hast thee for thy life

Bast. He hath Commission from thy Wife and me, To hang Cordelia in the prison, and To lay the blame vpon her owne dispaire, That she for-did her selfe

Alb. The G.o.ds defend her, beare him hence awhile.

Enter Lear with Cordelia in his armes.

Lear. Howle, howle, howle: O you are men of stones, Had I your tongues and eyes, Il'd vse them so, That Heauens vault should crack: she's gone for euer.

I know when one is dead, and when one liues, She's dead as earth: Lend me a Looking-gla.s.se, If that her breath will mist or staine the stone, Why then she liues

Kent. Is this the promis'd end?

Edg. Or image of that horror

Alb. Fall and cease

Lear. This feather stirs, she liues: if it be so, It is a chance which do's redeeme all sorrowes That euer I haue felt

Kent. O my good Master

Lear. Prythee away

Edg. 'Tis n.o.ble Kent your Friend

Lear. A plague vpon you Murderors, Traitors all, I might haue sau'd her, now she's gone for euer: Cordelia, Cordelia, stay a little. Ha: What is't thou saist? Her voice was euer soft, Gentle, and low, an excellent thing in woman.

I kill'd the Slaue that was a hanging thee

Gent. 'Tis true (my Lords) he did

Lear. Did I not fellow?

I haue seene the day, with my good biting Faulchion I would haue made him skip: I am old now, And these same crosses spoile me. Who are you?

Mine eyes are not o'th' best, Ile tell you straight

Kent. If Fortune brag of two, she lou'd and hated, One of them we behold

Lear. This is a dull sight, are you not Kent?

Kent. The same: your Seruant Kent, Where is your Seruant Caius?

Lear. He's a good fellow, I can tell you that, He'le strike and quickly too, he's dead and rotten

Kent. No my good Lord, I am the very man

Lear. Ile see that straight

Kent. That from your first of difference and decay, Haue follow'd your sad steps

Lear. You are welcome hither

Kent. Nor no man else: All's cheerlesse, darke, and deadly, Your eldest Daughters haue fore-done themselues, And desperately are dead Lear. I so I thinke

Alb. He knowes not what he saies, and vaine is it That we present vs to him.

Enter a Messenger.

Edg. Very bootlesse

Mess. Edmund is dead my Lord

Alb. That's but a trifle heere: You Lords and n.o.ble Friends, know our intent, What comfort to this great decay may come, Shall be appli'd. For vs we will resigne, During the life of this old Maiesty To him our absolute power, you to your rights, With boote, and such addition as your Honours Haue more then merited. All Friends shall Taste the wages of their vertue, and all Foes The cup of their deseruings: O see, see

Lear. And my poore Foole is hang'd: no, no, no life?

Why should a Dog, a Horse, a Rat haue life, And thou no breath at all? Thou'lt come no more, Neuer, neuer, neuer, neuer, neuer.

Pray you vndo this b.u.t.ton. Thanke you Sir, Do you see this? Looke on her? Looke her lips, Looke there, looke there.

He dies.

Edg. He faints, my Lord, my Lord

Kent. Breake heart, I prythee breake

Edg. Looke vp my Lord

Kent. Vex not his ghost, O let him pa.s.se, he hates him, That would vpon the wracke of this tough world Stretch him out longer

Edg. He is gon indeed

Kent. The wonder is, he hath endur'd so long, He but vsurpt his life

Alb. Beare them from hence, our present businesse Is generall woe: Friends of my soule, you twaine, Rule in this Realme, and the gor'd state sustaine

Kent. I haue a iourney Sir, shortly to go, My Master calls me, I must not say no

Edg. The waight of this sad time we must obey, Speake what we feele, not what we ought to say: The oldest hath borne most, we that are yong, Shall neuer see so much, nor liue so long.

Exeunt. with a dead March.

FINIS. THE TRAGEDIE OF KING LEAR.

The Tragedie of Oth.e.l.lo, the Moore of Venice

Actus Primus. Scoena Prima.