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Lear. This feather stirs ; she lives!-If it be so,
It is a chance that does redeem all sorrows
That ever I have felt.

Kent. (R. c.) [Kneeling.] O, my good master!
Lear. Pr'ythee, away!

Edg. (L. c.) "Tis noble Kent, your friend.

Lear. A plague upon you, murderers, traitors, all! I might have sav'd her; now she's gone for ever! Cordelia, Cordelia, stay a little.-Ha! [

What is't thou say'st? Her voice was ever soft,
Gentle, and low; but I did kill the slave

That was a hanging thee!

Officer. (L.) [Advancing a little.] lords, he did.

Lear. Did I not, fellow?

true, my

I have seen the day, with my good biting faulchion,
I would have made them skip: I am old now,
And these same crosses spoil me. Who are you?
My eyes are none o'the best:-I'll tell you straight.
Kent. (R. C.) If fortune brag of two she lov'd and

One of them we behold.

Lear. This is a dull sight.-Are you not Kent?
Kent. The same;

Your servant Kent.-Where is your servant Caius ?
Lear. He's a good fellow; I can tell you that;

He'll strike, and quickly too :-He's dead and rotten.
Kent. No, my good lord; I am the very man.
Lear. I'll see that straight.

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

Lear. You are welcome hither.

Kent. Nor no man else; all's cheerless, dark, and deadly.

Your eldest daughters have foredoom'd themselves,
And desperately are dead.

Lear. Ay, so I think.

Kent. He knows not what he says; and vain it is That we present us to him. O see! see!

Lear. And my poor fool is hang'd!, No, no, no life:

Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life,

And thou no breath at all? [Laying CORDELIA on the ground, and kneeling on both knees.] Q, thou wilt come no more!

Never, never, never, never!

Pray you, undo this button.

Placing his hand to his
Thank you, sir.

throat, as if choaking. Do you see this? Look on her-look-her lips

Look there-look there!

[Kisses her.

[Gives a convulsive gasp, and falls back. He is supported on the R. by KENT, and on the L. by EDGAR.-Curtain falls to slow music.




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DOLBY Printer, 17, Catherine-street, Strand, London.

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Por. Look not thus sternly on me; you know I'd rather die than disobey you.

Act V. Sc. I.

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