supply the place for your labour. 'Your--wife, so I would say-- 'Affectionate servant, 'Goneril.' O undistinguish'd space of woman's will! A plot upon her virtuous husband's life; And the exchange my brother! Here, in the sands, Thee I'll rake up, the post unsanctified Of murderous lechers: and in the mature time With this ungracious paper strike the sight Of the death practised duke: for him 'tis well That of thy death and business I can tell. The king is mad: how stiff is my vile sense, That I stand up, and have ingenious feeling Of my huge sorrows! Better I were distract: So should my thoughts be sever'd from my griefs, And woes by wrong imaginations lose The knowledge of themselves. Give me your hand: Far off, methinks, I hear the beaten drum: Come, father, I'll bestow you with a friend. O thou good Kent, how shall I live and work, To match thy goodness? My life will be too short, And every measure fail me. To be acknowledged, madam, is o'erpaid. All my reports go with the modest truth; Nor more nor clipp'd, but so. Be better suited: These weeds are memories of those worser hours: I prithee, put them off. Pardon me, dear madam; Yet to be known shortens my made intent: My boon I make it, that you know me not Till time and I think meet. Then be't so, my good lord. How does the king? Madam, sleeps still. O you kind gods, Cure this great breach in his abused nature! The untuned and jarring senses, O, wind up Of this child-changed father! So please your majesty That we may wake the king: he hath slept long. Be govern'd by your knowledge, and proceed I' the sway of your own will. Is he array'd? Ay, madam; in the heaviness of his sleep We put fresh garments on him. Be by, good madam, when we do awake him; I doubt not of his temperance. Very well. Please you, draw near. Louder the music there! O my dear father! Restoration hang Thy medicine on my lips; and let this kiss Repair those violent harms that my two sisters Have in thy reverence made! Kind and dear princess! Had you not been their father, these white flakes Had challenged pity of them. Was this a face To be opposed against the warring winds? To stand against the deep dread-bolted thunder? In the most terrible and nimble stroke Of quick, cross lightning? to watch--poor perdu!-- With this thin helm?