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Kent. Importune him once more to go, my lord;

His wits begin to unsettle.

Glo. Canst thou blame him?

His daughters seek his death. Ah! that good Kent;

He said it would be thus, poor banish'd man!

Thou sayst the king grows mad; I'll tell thee, friend,

I am almost mad myself. I had a son,

Now outlaw'd from my blood; he sought my life,

But lately, very late; I lov'd him, friend,

No father his son dearer; true to tell thee,

The grief hath craz'd my wits. What a night 's this!

I do beseech your Grace,—

Lear. O! cry you mercy, sir.

Noble philosopher, your company.

Edg. Tom's a-cold.

Glo. In, fellow, there, into the hovel: keep thee warm.

Lear. Come, let's in all.

Kent. This way, my lord.

Lear. With him;

I will keep still with my philosopher.

Kent. Good my lord, soothe him; let him take the fellow.

Glo. Take him you on.

Kent. Sirrah, come on; go along with us.

Lear. Come, good Athenian.

Glo. No words, no words: hush.

Edg. Child Rowland to the dark tower came,

His word was still, Fie, foh, and fum,

I smell the blood of a British man.

Exeunt.

 185 Child Rowland; cf. n.

