EDGAR.
Well pray you, father.
GLOUCESTER.
Now, good sir, what are you?
EDGAR.
A most poor man, made tame to fortune’s blows;
Who, by the art of known and feeling sorrows,
Am pregnant to good pity. Give me your hand,
I’ll lead you to some biding.
GLOUCESTER.
Hearty thanks:
The bounty and the benison of heaven
To boot, and boot.
Enter Oswald.
OSWALD.
A proclaim’d prize! Most happy!
That eyeless head of thine was first fram’d flesh
To raise my fortunes. Thou old unhappy traitor,
Briefly thyself remember. The sword is out
That must destroy thee.
GLOUCESTER.
Now let thy friendly hand
Put strength enough to’t.
[Edgar interposes.]
OSWALD.
Wherefore, bold peasant,
Dar’st thou support a publish’d traitor? Hence;
Lest that th’infection of his fortune take
Like hold on thee. Let go his arm.
EDGAR.
Chill not let go, zir, without vurther ’casion.