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S C E N E, a Camp.
Enter Cordelia, Physician, and Soldiers.

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Mes, News, Madam : The British pow'rs are marching hitherward. Cor. 'Tis known before. Our preparation stands In expectation of them. O dear father, It is thy business that I go about: therefore great France My mourning and important tears hath pitied. No blown ambition doth our arms incite, But love, dear love, and our #d father's right: Soon may I hear, and see him | [Exeunt.

which smoke has, of making the eyes water. And as to the growth of it, Pliny tells us particularly that it springs up in gardens and fields of barley; (Nascitur in hortis et segetibus bordeaceis) which our author here calls, in our sustaining corn—l observe, in Chaucer it is written femetere; by a corruption either of the scribe, or of vulgar pronunciat on ; if of the latter, it might from thence easily slide, in progress of time, into fenitar.

S C E N E,

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Than for your Lady's: you may gather more:

you do find him, pray you, give him this;
And when your mistress hears thus much from you,
I pray, desire her call her wisdom to her. So farewell.
If you do chance to hear of that blind traitor,
Preferment falls on him that cuts him off.

Stew. 'Would I could meet him, madam, I should hew What party

I do follow. Reg. Fare thee well.


SCENE, the Country near Dover.

Enter Glo'ster, and Edgar, as a Peasant. Glo. Hen shall I come to th' top of that fame hill?

Edg. You do climb up it now. Look, how Glo. Methinks, the ground is even.

(we labour. Edg". Horrible steep. Hark, do


hear the sea? Glo. No, truly.

Edg. Why then your other senses grow imperfect :
By your eyes anguish.

Glo. So may it be, indeed.
Methinks, thy voice is alter'd; and thou speak'st
In better phrase and matter than thou didit.

Edg. You're much deceiv'd : in nothing am I chang'd,
But in my garments.
Glo. Sure, you're better spoken.

[fearful Edg: Come on, Sir, here's the place-stand still. How And dizzy 'tis, to cait one's eyes fo low ! The crows and choughs, that wing the mid-way air, Shew scarce fo grois as beetles. Half way down Hangs one, that gathers famphire; dreadful trade! Methinks, he seems no bigger than his head. The fisher-men, that walk upon the beach, Appear like mice; and yond tall anchoring bark, Diininit'd to her cock; her cock, a buoy Almoft too small for sight. The murmuring surge, That on th' unnumbred idle pebbles chafes, Cannot be heard so high. I'll look no more, .


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