Scene VI

Why, then, your other senses grow imperfectBy your eyes’ anguish.

So may it be, indeed:Methinks thy voice is alter’d; and thou speak’stIn better phrase and matter than thou didst.

You’re much deceived: in nothing am I changedBut in my garments.

Methinks you’re better spoken.

Come on, sir; here’s the place: stand still. How fearfulAnd dizzy ’tis, to cast one’s eyes so low!The crows and choughs that wing the midway airShow scarce so gross as beetles: half way downHangs one that gathers samphire, dreadful trade!Methinks he seems no bigger than his head:The fishermen, that walk upon the beach,Appear like mice; and yond tall anchoring bark,Diminish’d to her cock; her cock, a buoyAlmost too small for sight: the murmuring surge,That on the unnumber’d idle pebbles chafes,Cannot be heard so high. I’ll look no more;Lest my brain turn, and the deficient sightTopple down headlong.

Set me where you stand.

Give me your hand: you are now within a footOf the extreme verge: for all beneath the moonWould I not leap upright.

Let go my hand.Here, friend, ’s another purse; in it a jewelWell worth a poor man’s taking: fairies and godsProsper it with thee! Go thou farther off;Bid me farewell, and let me hear thee going.

Kneeling. O you mighty gods!This world I do renounce, and, in your sights,Shake patiently my great affliction off:If I could bear it longer, and not fallTo quarrel with your great opposeless wills,My snuff and loathed part of nature shouldBurn itself out. If Edgar live, O, bless him!Now, fellow, fare thee well. He falls forward.

Gone, sir: farewell.And yet I know not how conceit may robThe treasury of life, when life itselfYields to the theft: had he been where he thought,By this, had thought been past. Alive or dead?Ho, you sir! friend! Hear you, sir! speak!Thus might he pass indeed: yet he revives.What are you, sir?

Away, and let me die.

Hadst thou been aught but gossamer, feathers, air,So many fathom down precipitating,Thou’dst shiver’d like an egg: but thou dost breathe;Hast heavy substance; bleed’st not; speak’st; art sound.Ten masts at each make not the altitudeWhich thou hast perpendicularly fell:Thy life’s a miracle. Speak yet again.

But have I fall’n, or no?

From the dread summit of this chalky bourn.Look up a-height; the shrill-gorged lark so farCannot be seen or heard: do but look up.

Alack, I have no eyes.Is wretchedness deprived that benefit,To end itself by death? ’Twas yet some comfort,When misery could beguile the tyrant’s rage,And frustrate his proud will.

This is above all strangeness.Upon the crown o’ the cliff, what thing was thatWhich parted from you?

A poor unfortunate beggar.

As I stood here below, methought his eyesWere two full moons; he had a thousand noses,Horns whelk’d and waved like the enridged sea:It was some fiend; therefore, thou happy father,Think that the clearest gods, who make them honoursOf men’s impossibilities, have preserved thee.

I do remember now: henceforth I’ll bearAffliction till it do cry out itself“Enough, enough,” and die. That thing you speak of,I took it for a man; often ’twould say“The fiend, the fiend:” he led me to that place.

The trick of that voice I do well remember:Is ’t not the king?

Ay, every inch a king:When I do stare, see how the subject quakes.I pardon that man’s life. What was thy cause? Adultery?Thou shalt not die: die for adultery! No:The wren goes to ’t, and the small gilded flyDoes lecher in my sight.Let copulation thrive; for Gloucester’s bastard sonWas kinder to his father than my daughtersGot ’tween the lawful sheets.To ’t, luxury, pell-mell! for I lack soldiers.Behold yond simpering dame,Whose face between her forks presages snow;That minces virtue, and does shake the headTo hear of pleasure’s name;The fitchew, nor the soiled horse, goes to ’tWith a more riotous appetite.Down from the waist they are Centaurs,Though women all above:But to the girdle do the gods inherit,Beneath is all the fiends’;

O ruin’d piece of nature! This great worldShall so wear out to nought. Dost thou know me?

I would not take this from report; it is,And my heart breaks at it.

If thou wilt weep my fortunes, take my eyes.I know thee well enough; thy name is Gloucester:Thou must be patient; we came crying hither:Thou know’st, the first time that we smell the air,We wawl and cry. I will preach to thee: mark.

Alack, alack the day!

When we are born, we cry that we are comeTo this great stage of fools: this a good block;It were a delicate stratagem, to shoeA troop of horse with felt: I’ll put ’t in proof;And when I have stol’n upon these sons-in-law,Then, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill!

O, here he is: lay hand upon him. Sir,Your most dear daughter—

No rescue? What, a prisoner? I am evenThe natural fool of fortune. Use me well;You shall have ransom. Let me have surgeons;I am cut to the brains.

No seconds? all myself?Why, this would make a man a man of salt,To use his eyes for garden water-pots,Ay, and laying autumn’s dust.

I will die bravely, like a bridegroom. What!I will be jovial: come, come; I am a king,My masters, know you that.

A sight most pitiful in the meanest wretch,Past speaking of in a king! Thou hast one daughter,Who redeems nature from the general curseWhich twain have brought her to.

Hail, gentle sir.

Sir, speed you: what’s your will?

Do you hear aught, sir, of a battle toward?

Most sure and vulgar: every one hears that,Which can distinguish sound.

But, by your favour,How near’s the other army?

Near and on speedy foot; the main descryStands on the hourly thought.

I thank you, sir: that’s all.

Though that the queen on special cause is here,Her army is moved on.

I thank you, sir. Exit Gentleman.

You ever-gentle gods, take my breath from me:Let not my worser spirit tempt me againTo die before you please!

Well pray you, father.

Now, good sir, what are you?

A most poor man, made tame to fortune’s blows;Who, by the art of known and feeling sorrows,Am pregnant to good pity. Give me your hand,I’ll lead you to some biding.

Hearty thanks:The bounty and the benison of heavenTo boot, and boot!

A proclaim’d prize! Most happy!That eyeless head of thine was first framed fleshTo raise my fortunes. Thou old unhappy traitor,Briefly thyself remember: the sword is outThat must destroy thee.

Now let thy friendly handPut strength enough to’t. Edgar interposes.

Wherefore, bold peasant,Darest thou support a publish’d traitor? Hence;Lest that the infection of his fortune takeLike hold on thee. Let go his arm.

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 meTo Edmund earl of Gloucester; seek him outUpon the British party: O, untimely death! Dies.

I know thee well: a serviceable villain;As duteous to the vices of thy mistressAs badness would desire.

What, is he dead?

Sit you down, father; rest youLet’s see these pockets: the letters that he speaks ofMay be my friends. He’s dead; I am only sorryHe had no other death’s-man. Let us see:Leave, gentle wax; and, manners, blame us not:To know our enemies’ minds, we’ld rip their hearts;Their papers, is more lawful.

The king is mad: how stiff is my vile sense,That I stand up, and have ingenious feelingOf my huge sorrows! Better I were distract:So should my thoughts be sever’d from my griefs,And woes by wrong imaginations loseThe knowledge of themselves.

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