OLD MAN.
I’ll bring him the best ’parel that I have,
Come on’t what will.
[Exit.]
GLOUCESTER.
Sirrah naked fellow.
EDGAR.
Poor Tom’s a-cold.
[Aside.] I cannot daub it further.
GLOUCESTER.
Come hither, fellow.
EDGAR.
[Aside.] And yet I must. Bless thy sweet eyes, they bleed.
GLOUCESTER.
Know’st thou the way to Dover?
EDGAR.
Both stile and gate, horseway and footpath. Poor Tom hath been scared out of his good wits. Bless thee, good man’s son, from the foul fiend! Five fiends have been in poor Tom at once; of lust, as Obidicut; Hobbididence, prince of darkness; Mahu, of stealing; Modo, of murder; Flibbertigibbet, of mopping and mowing, who since possesses chambermaids and waiting women. So, bless thee, master!
GLOUCESTER.
Here, take this purse, thou whom the heaven’s plagues
Have humbled to all strokes: that I am wretched
Makes thee the happier. Heavens deal so still!
Let the superfluous and lust-dieted man,
That slaves your ordinance, that will not see
Because he does not feel, feel your power quickly;
So distribution should undo excess,
And each man have enough. Dost thou know Dover?
EDGAR.
Ay, master.