Mess. Edmund is dead my Lord

Alb. That's but a trifle heere:

You Lords and Noble Friends, know our intent,

What comfort to this great decay may come,

Shall be appli'd. For vs we will resigne,

During the life of this old Maiesty

To him our absolute power, you to your rights,

With boote, and such addition as your Honours

Haue more then merited. All Friends shall

Taste the wages of their vertue, and all Foes

The cup of their deseruings: O see, see

Lear. And my poore Foole is hang'd: no, no, no life?

Why should a Dog, a Horse, a Rat haue life,

And thou no breath at all? Thou'lt come no more,

Neuer, neuer, neuer, neuer, neuer.

Pray you vndo this Button. Thanke you Sir,

Do you see this? Looke on her? Looke her lips,

Looke there, looke there.

He dies.

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