He's coming hither, now i'th' Night, i'th' hafte,
And Regan with him; have you nothing faid
Upon his party 'gainst the Duke of Albany?
Advise your felf.

Edg. I am fure on't, not a word.

Baft. I hear my Father coming, pardon me In cunning, I muft draw my Sword upon you Draw, feem to defend your felf.

Now quit you well

Yield

come before my Father

Fly, Brother Torches ! --- fo farewel

light hoa, here, [Exit Edgar.

Some blood drawn on me would beget Opinion

[Wounds his Arm. Of my more fierce endeavour, I have feen Drunkards Do more than this in Sport; Father! Father! Siop, ftop, no help?

Enter Glofter, and Servants with Torches.

Glo. Now Edmund, where's the Villain?

Baft. Here ftood he in the dark, his fharp Sword out, Mumbling of wicked Charms, conjuring the Moon To ftand his aufpicious Miftrefs.

Glo. But where is he?

Baft. Look, Sir, I bleed.

Glo. Where is the Villain, Edmund ?

Baft. Fled this way, Sir, when by no means he could
Glo. Purfue him, ho! go after. By no means, what? ---
Baft. Perfwade me to the Murther of your Lordship;
But that I told him the revenging Gods,

'Gainft Parricides did all the Thunder bend,
Spoke with how manifold, and strong a Bond
The Child was bound to th' Father. Sir, in fine,
Seeing how lothly oppofite I ftood

To his unnatural purpose, in fell Motion
With his prepared Sword, he charges home
My unprovided Body, launcht mine Arm;
And when he faw my beft alarmed Spirits,
Bold in the Quarrels right, rouz'd to th' encounter,
Or whether gafted by the Noise I made,
Full fuddenly he fled.

Glo. Let him fly far;

Not in this Land fhall he remain uncaught

Ee 3

And

And found; Difpatch, the Noble Duke, my Mafter,
My worthy Arch and Patron comes to Night,
By his Authority I will proclaim it,

That he which finds him fhall deferve our Thanks,
Bringing the murtherous Coward to the Stake:
He that conceals him, Death.

Baft. When I diffwaded him from his intent,
And found him pight to do it, with curft Speech
I threatned to discover him; he replied,
Thou unpoffeffing Baftard, doft thou think,
If I would ftand against thee, would the Repofal
Of any Truft, Virtue, or Worth in thee

Make thy words faith'd? No, by what I should deny,
(As this I would, though thou didst produce
My very Character) I'd turn it all

To thy Suggeftion, Plot, and damned Practice;
And thou muft make a dullard of the World,
If they not thought the Profits of my Death
Were very pregnant and potential Spirits
To make thee feek it.

Glo. O ftrange and faftned Villain !

Would he deny his Letter, faid he?

[Trumpets within.

Hark, the Duke's Trumpets! I know not why he comes ----
All Ports I'll bar, the Villain fhall not fcape,

The Duke muft grant me that; befides his Picture
I will fend 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 ftrangeness. 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.

Glo, I know not, Madam, 'tis too bad, too bad.
Baft. Yes, Madam, he was of that Confort.

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 wafte of Revenues;
I have this prefent Evening from my Sifter
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 is my Duty, Sir.

Glo. He did bewray his Practice, and receiv'd This hurt you fee, ftriving 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 pleafe; as for you, Edmund,
Whofe virtue and obedience doth, this inftant,
So much commend it felf, you fhall be ours;
Nature's of fuch deep truft, we fhall much need:
You we first seize on.

Baft. I fhall ferve you, Sir, truly, how ever elfe.
Glo. For him I thank your Grace.

Corn. You know not why we came to vifit you
Reg. Thus out of feason, thredding dark-ey'd night?
Occafions, noble Glofter, of fome Prize,
Wherein we must have use of your Advice →→→
Our Father he hath writ, fo hath our Sifter,
Of Differences, which I beft thought it fit
To answer from our home; the feveral Meffengers
From hence attend Difpatch. Our good old Friend
Lay Comforts to your Bofom, and beftow
Your needful Counfel to our Bufineffes,
Which crave the inftant use.

Gle. I ferve you, Madam,

Your Graces are right welcome.

[Exeunt.

Enter Kent, and Steward, feverally.

Stew. Good dawning to thee, Friend, art of this Houfe? Kent. Ay,

Stew. Where may we fet our Horses?

Kent. I'th' Mire.

Stew. Prithee 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 ufe me thus? I know thee not. Kent. Fellow, I know thee.

Stew. What doft thou know me for ?

Kent. A Knave, a Rafcal, an eater of broken Meats, a bafe, proud, fhallow, beggarly, three-fuited, hundred pound, filthy Woofted-ftocking Knave, a Lilly-livered, Actiontaking, whorfon Glafs-gazing, Super-ferviceable finical Rogue, one-Trunk-inheriting Slave; one that wouldst be a Bawd in way of good Service, and art nothing but the compofition of a Knave, Beggar, Coward, Pander, and the Son and Heir of a Mungril Bitch; one whom I will beat into clamours whining, if thou deny'st the leaft Syllable of thy Addition.

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

Kent. What a brazen-fac'd Varlet art thou, to deny thou knoweft me? Is it two Days fince I tript up thy Heels, and beat thee before the King? Draw you Rogue, for though it be Night, yet the Moon fhines; I'll make a Sop o'th' Moonshine of you, you whorfon Culleinly Barbermonger, draw. [Drawing his Sword. Stew, Away, I have nothing to do with thee.

Kent. Draw, you Rafcal; 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 Rafcal, come your ways.

Stew. Help, ho! Murther! help!

Kent. Strike you Slave; ftand, Rogue, ftand you neat Slave, ftrike.

[Beating him.

Stew.

Stew. Help ho! Murther, murther!

Enter Baftard, Cornwall, Regan, Gloster, 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 Mafter.

Glo. Weapons? Arms? what's the Matter here?

Corn. Keep Peace upon your Lives, he dies that strikes again, what is the Matter?

Reg. The Messengers from our Sifter, and the King?
Corn. What is your difference? fpeak.

Stew. I am fcarce in breath, my Lord.

Kent. No marvel, you have fo beftir'd your Valour, you cowardly Rafcal, Nature difclaims all fhare in thee: A Tailor made thee.

Corn. Thou art a ftrange Fellow, a Tailor make a Man? Kent. A Tailor, Sir? a Stone-cutter, or a Painter, could not have made him fo ill, tho' they had been but two Years o'th' Trade,

Corn. Speak yer, how grew your Quarrel?

Stew. The ancient Ruffian, Sir, whofe Life I have spar'd at fute of his gray 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 gray Beard, you wag-tail !---

Corn. Peace, Sirrah!

You beaftly Knave, know you no Reverence?
Kent. Yes, Sir, but anger hath a privilege.
Corn. Why art thou angry?

Kent. That fuch a Slave as this fhould wear a Sword,
Who wears no Honefty: Such smiling Rogues as thefe,
Like Rats oft bite the holy Cords a-twain,
Which art t'intrince, t'unloofe: Smooth every Paffion
That in the Natures of their Lords rebel,
Being Oil to Fire, Snow to their colder Moods,
Renege, affirm, and turn their Halcyon beaks,
With every gale, and vary of their Masters,
Knowing nought, like Dogs, but following:
A plague upon your Epileptick Visage,