Make thy words faith'd? no, by what I fhould deny,
(As this I would, although thou did'ft produce
My very character) I'd turn it all

To thy fuggestion, plot, and damned practice;
And thou must make a dullard of the world,
If they not thought the profits of my death-
Were very pregnant and potential fpurrs
To make thee seek it.

Glo. O ftrange, fasten'd villain!

Would he deny his letter, said he ?

[Trumpets within.

Hark, the Duke's trumpets! I know not why he comes
All ports I'll bar, the villain fhall not scape,

The Duke must grant me that; befides, his picture:
I will send far and near, that all the kingdom
May have due note of him; and of my land,
(Loyal and natural boy) I'll work the means
To make thee capable.

Enter Cornwall, Regan, and attendants.

Corn. How now, my noble friend? fince I came hither,, Which I can call but now, I have heard ftrange news.

b

Reg. If it be true, all vengeance comes too short
Which can pursue th' offender; how does my lord?
Glo. O madam, my old heart is crack'd, it's crack'd..
Reg. What, did my
father's godfon feek your life?
He whom my father nam'd, your Edgar ? ·

Glo. O lady, lady, fhame would have it hid.

Reg. Was he not companion with the riotous Knights

That tended upon my father?

Glo. I know not, madam; 'tis too bad,' too bad.
Baft. Yes, madam, he was of that confort.

* Spirits.

b ftrangeness.

Reg.

Reg. No marvel then, though he were ill-affected;
"Tis they have put him on the old man's death,
To have th' expence and waste of revenues.
I have this present evening from my fifter
Been well inform'd of them, and with fuch cautions,
That if they come to fojourn at my house,
I'll not be there.

Corn. Nor I, affure thee, Regan;

Edmund, I hear that you have fhewn your father
A child-like office.

Baft. It's my duty, Sir.

Glo. He did bewray his practice, and receiv'd This hurt you fee, striving to apprehend him. Corn. Is he purfued?

Glo. Ay, my good lord.

Corn. If he be taken, he shall never more

Be fear'd of doing harm: make your own purpose,
How in my strength you please. As for you Edmund,
Whose virtue and obedience doth this inftant
So much commend it self, you shall be ours;
Natures of fuch deep truft we fhall much need:
You we first seize on.

Baft. I fhall ferve you, Sir,
Truly, however else.

Glo. I thank your grace.

Corn. You know not why we came to vifit you
Thus out of season thredding dark-ey'd night?
Reg. Occafions, noble Glofter, of fome prize,
Wherein we must have use of your advice---
Our father he hath writ, fo hath our fifter,
Of diffrences, which I best thought it fit
To answer from our home; the fev'ral meffengers
From hence attend dispatch. Our good old friend:

Lay

Lay comforts to your bofom, and bestow
Your needful counsel to our bufineffes,
Which crave the inftant use.

Glo. I ferve you, madam,

Your graces are right welcome.

SCENE

[Exeunt.

V...

Enter Kent, and Steward, feverally.

Stew. Good evening to thee friend, art of this houfe?

Kent. Ay.

Stew. Where may we fet our horfes ?

Kent. I'th' mire.

Stew. Prythee if thou lov'ft me tell me.

Kent. I love thee not.

Stew. Why then I care not for thee.

Kent. If I had thee in Lipsbury pinfold, I would make thee care for me.

Stew. Why doft thou use me thus? I know thee not.

Kent. Fellow, I know thee.

Stew. What doft thou know me for?

Kent. A knave, a rascal, an eater of broken meats, a bafe, proud, fhallow, beggarly, three-fuited, hundred pound, filthy woofted-fbocking knave; a lilly-liver'd, action-taking, Whorfon: Glass-gazing, super-serviceable finical rogue; one trunkinheriting flave, one that would't be a bawd in way of good service; and art nothing but the compofition of a knave, beggar, coward, pander, and the fon and heir of a mungtil bitch; one whom I will beat into clam'rous whining, if thou deny'st the least fyllable of thy addition.

Stew. Why what a monftrous fellow art thou, thus to rail on one, that is neither known of thee, nor knows thee?

Kent.

In the common editions it is Good dawning, tho' the time be apparently night. I have reftor'd it to fenfe from the old edition.

Kent. What a brazen-fac'd varlet art thou to deny thou knowest me? is it two days fince I tript up thy heels, and beat thee before the King? draw you rogue, for tho' it be night, yet the moon fhines; I'll make a fop o'th' moonshine of you, you whorfon culleinly barber-monger, draw.

[Drawing his fword.

Stew. Away, I have nothing to do with thee.

Kent. Draw, you rascal; you come with letters against the King, and take Vanity the puppet's part, against the royalty of her father; draw you rogue, or I'll fo carbonado your shanks--draw, you rascal, come your ways.

Stew. Help, ho! murther! help!----

Kent. Strike, you flave; stand, rogue, stand, you neat slave,

ftrike.

Stew. Help ho! murther! murther!

SCENE VI.

[Beating him.

Enter Baftard, Cornwal, Regan, Glo'fter, and Servants.

Baft. How now, what's the matter? Part---

Kent. With you, goodman boy, if you please, come, I'll flesh ye, come on young master.

Glo. Weapons? arms? what's the matter here?

Corn. Keep peace upon your lives, he dies that strikes again, what's the matter?

Reg. The meffengers from our fifter and the King?
Corn. What is your difference? fpeak.

Stew. I am scarce in breath, my lord.

Kent. No marvel, you have fo beftir'd your valour, you cowardly rafcal, nature disclaims all share in thee: a tailor made; thee.

Corn. Thou art a ftrange fellow, a tailor make a man?

Kent. A tailor, Sir? a ftone-cutter, or a painter could

...

3

not

not have made him so ill, tho' they had been but two hours o'th' trade.

Corn. Speak you, how grew your quarrel?

Stew. This ancient ruffian, Sir, whofe life I have spar'd at fute of his grey beard----

Kent. Thou whorfon zed! thou unneceffary letter! my lord, if you will give me leave, I will tread this unbolted villain into mortar, and daub the wall of a jakes with him. Spare my grey beard? you wag-tail!

Corn. Peace, Sirrah!

You beastly knave, know you no reverence?
Kent. Yes, Sir, but anger hath a privilege.

Corn. Why art thou angry?

Kent. That fuch a flave as this fhou'd wear a fword,

Who wears no honefty: fuch smiling rogues

с

As thefe, like rats oft bite those cords in twain Too intricate t'unloofe: footh ev'ry paffion

That in the nature of their lords rebels;

Bring oil to fire, fnow to their colder moods
Renege, affirm, and turn their halcyon beaks
With ev'ry gale and Vary of their masters,
As knowing nought, like dogs, but following.
A plague upon your epileptick vifage!
Smile you my speeches, as I were a fool?
Goose, if I had you upon Sarum plain,
I'd drive ye cackling home to Camelot.
Corn. What art thou mad, old fellow?
Glo. How fell you out? fay that.

Kent. No contraries hold more antipathy,

Than I and fuch a knave.

Corn. Why doft thou call him knave? what is his fault?