Your lady, sir, your lady: and her sister
By her is poisoned; she hath confess'd it.

'Tis hot, it smokes;
It came even from the heart of--O, she's dead!

Help, help, O, help!

The arbitrement is like to be bloody. Fare you
well, sir.

They say Edgar, his banished son, is with the Earl
of Kent in Germany.

Who is conductor of his people?

Holds it true, sir, that the Duke of Cornwall was so slain?

Ay, madam; in the heaviness of his sleep
We put fresh garments on him.

Though that the queen on special cause is here,
Her army is moved on.

Near and on speedy foot; the main descry
Stands on the hourly thought.

Most sure and vulgar: every one hears that,
Which can distinguish sound.

Sir, speed you: what's your will?

A sight most pitiful in the meanest wretch,
Past speaking of in a king! Thou hast one daughter,
Who redeems nature from the general curse
Which twain have brought her to.

You are a royal one, and we obey you.

Good sir,--

You shall have any thing.

O, here he is: lay hand upon him. Sir,
Your most dear daughter--

'Tis so, they are afoot.

Alack, poor gentleman!

Why, good sir?

No, since.

No.

'Faith, once or twice she heaved the name of 'father'
Pantingly forth, as if it press'd her heart:
Cried 'Sisters! sisters! Shame of ladies! sisters!
Kent! father! sisters! What, i' the storm? i' the night?
Let pity not be believed!' There she shook
The holy water from her heavenly ...

Not to a rage: patience and sorrow strove
Who should express her goodliest. You have seen
Sunshine and rain at once: her smiles and tears
Were like a better way: those happy smilets,
That play'd on her ripe lip, seem'd not to know
What guests were in her ...

Ay, sir; she took them, read them in my presence;
And now and then an ample tear trill'd down
Her delicate cheek: it seem'd she was a queen
Over her passion; who, most rebel-like,
Sought to be king o'er her.

The Marshal of France, Monsieur La Far.

Something he left imperfect in the
state, which since his coming forth is thought
of; which imports to the kingdom so much
fear and danger, that his personal return was
most required and necessary.

Give me your hand: have you no more to say?

I will talk further with you.

None but the fool; who labours to out-jest
His heart-struck injuries.

Contending with the fretful element:
Bids the winds blow the earth into the sea,
Or swell the curled water 'bove the main,
That things might change or cease; tears his white hair,
Which the impetuous blasts, with eyeless rage,
Catch in their fury, and make nothing of;
Strives in his ...

One minded like the weather, most unquietly.

Made you no more offence but what you speak of?

As I learn'd,
The night before there was no purpose in them
Of this remove.

Ready, my lord.