EDGAR.
What kind of help?
ALBANY.
Speak, man.
EDGAR.
What means this bloody knife?
GENTLEMAN.
’Tis hot, it smokes;
It came even from the heart of—O! she’s dead!
ALBANY.
Who dead? Speak, man.
GENTLEMAN.
Your lady, sir, your lady; and her sister
By her is poisoned; she hath confesses it.
EDMUND.
I was contracted to them both, all three
Now marry in an instant.
EDGAR.
Here comes Kent.
Enter Kent.
ALBANY.
Produce their bodies, be they alive or dead.
This judgement of the heavens that makes us tremble
Touches us not with pity. O, is this he?
The time will not allow the compliment
Which very manners urges.