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untimely. Our Lear hangs over her breathless lips, and cries Cordelia, Cordelia, stay a little !”'

Vex not his ghost-oh! let him pass—he hates him.
That would upon the rack of this tough world

Stretch him out longer !'
Hush! Strife and Quarrel, over the solemn grave! Sound,
Trumpets, a mournful march. Fall, dark curtain upon his pageant,
his pride, his grief, his awful tragedy!

THE END.

Edinburgh:
Printed by W. and R, Chambers.

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