You do me wrong to take me out o’ th’ grave:
Thou art a soul in bliss, but I am bound
Upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears
Do scald like molten lead.
You are a spirit, I know; when did you die?
Where have I been? Where am I? Fair daylight?
I am mightily abus’d; I should ev’n die with pity
To see another thus. I know not what to say.
I will not swear these are my hands. Let’s see,
I feel this pin prick. Would I were assur’d
Of my condition! Pray do not mock me.
I am a very foolish fond old man,
Fourscore and upward, not an hour more nor less;
And to deal plainly,
I fear I am not in my perfect mind.
Methinks I should know you, and know this man,
Yet I am doubtful: for I am mainly ignorant
What place this is, and all the skill I have
Remembers not these garments; nor I know not
Where I did lodge last night. Do not laugh at me,
For (as I am a man) I think this lady
To be my child Cordelia.
Be your tears wet? Yes, faith. I pray weep not.
If you have poison for me, I will drink it.
I know you do not love me, for your sisters
Have (as I do remember) done me wrong:
You have some cause, they have not.
Do not abuse me. You must bear with me.
Pray you now forget, and forgive; I am old and foolish.