Howl, howl, howl! O, you are men of stones!
Had I your tongues and eyes, I’ld use them so
That heaven’s vault should crack. She’s gone for ever!
I know when one is dead, and when one lives;
She’s dead as earth. Lend me a looking-glass,
If that her breath will mist or stain the stone,
Why then she lives.
Is this the promis’d end?
Or image of that horror?
This feather stirs, she lives! If it be so,
It is a chance which does redeem all sorrows
That ever I have felt.
O my good master!
’Tis noble Kent, your friend.
A plague upon you, murderers, traitors all!
I might have sav’d her, now she’s gone for ever!
Cordelia, Cordelia, stay a little. Ha!
What is’t thou say’st? Her voice was ever soft,
Gentle, and low, an excellent thing in woman.
I kill’d the slave that was a-hanging thee.
Did I not, fellow?
I have seen the day, with my good biting falchion
I would have made them skip. I am old now,
And these same crosses spoil me. Who are you?
Mine eyes are not o’ th’ best; I’ll tell you straight.
If Fortune brag of two she lov’d and hated,
One of them we behold.
This is a dull sight. Are you not Kent?
Your servant Kent. Where is your servant Caius?
He’s a good fellow, I can tell you that;
He’ll strike, and quickly too. He’s dead and rotten.
No, my good lord, I am the very man—
I’ll see that straight.
That from your first of difference and decay,
Have follow’d your sad steps—
You are welcome hither.
Nor no man else. All’s cheerless, dark, and deadly.
Your eldest daughters have foredone themselves,
And desperately are dead.