Cornwall. What trumpet’s that?
Enter Steward.
Regan. I know’t, my sister’s: this approves her letter,
That she would soon be here.—Is your lady come?
Lear. This is a slave, whose easy-borrow’d pride
Dwells in the fickle grace of her he follows:——
Out, Varlet, from my sight!
Cornwall. What means your grace?
Lear. Who stock’d my servant? Regan, I have good hope
Thou did’st not know on’t.——Who comes here? O heavens,