Bast. Yours in the rankes of death.
Enter.
Gon. My most deere Gloster.
Oh, the difference of man, and man,
To thee a Womans seruices are due,
My Foole vsurpes my body
Stew. Madam, here come's my Lord.
Enter Albany.
Gon. I haue beene worth the whistle
Alb. Oh Gonerill,
You are not worth the dust which the rude winde
Blowes in your face
Gon. Milke-Liuer'd man,
That bear'st a cheeke for blowes, a head for wrongs,
Who hast not in thy browes an eye-discerning
Thine Honor, from thy suffering
Alb. See thy selfe diuell:
Proper deformitie seemes not in the Fiend
So horrid as in woman
Gon. Oh vaine Foole.
Enter a Messenger.
Mes. Oh my good Lord, the Duke of Cornwals dead,
Slaine by his Seruant, going to put out
The other eye of Glouster
Alb. Glousters eyes