News, madam; The British powers are marching hitherward. 'Tis known before; our preparation stands In expectation of them. O dear father, It is thy business that I go about; Therefore great France My mourning and important tears hath pitied. No blown ambition doth our arms incite, But love, dear love, and our aged father's right: Soon may I hear and see him! But are my brother's powers set forth? Ay, madam. Himself in person there? Madam, with much ado: Your sister is the better soldier. Lord Edmund spake not with your lord at home? No, madam. What might import my sister's letter to him? I know not, lady. 'Faith, he is posted hence on serious matter. It was great ignorance, Gloucester's eyes being out, To let him live: where he arrives he moves All hearts against us: Edmund, I think, is gone, In pity of his misery, to dispatch His nighted life: moreover, to descry The strength o' the enemy. I must needs after him, madam, with my letter. Our troops set forth to-morrow: stay with us; The ways are dangerous. I may not, madam: My lady charged my duty in this business. Why should she write to Edmund? Might not you Transport her purposes by word? Belike, Something--I know not what: I'll love thee much, Let me unseal the letter. Madam, I had rather-- I know your lady does not love her husband; I am sure of that: and at her late being here She gave strange oeillades and most speaking looks To noble Edmund. I know you are of her bosom. I, madam? I speak in understanding; you are; I know't: Therefore I do advise you, take this note: My lord is dead; Edmund and I have talk'd; And more convenient is he for my hand Than for your lady's: you may gather more. If you do find him, pray you, give him this; And when your mistress hears thus much from you, I pray, desire her call her wisdom to her. So, fare you well. If you do chance to hear of that blind traitor, Preferment falls on him that cuts him off. Would I could meet him, madam! I should show What party I do follow. Fare thee well. When shall we come to the top of that same hill? You do climb up it now: look, how we labour. Methinks the ground is even. Horrible steep. Hark, do you hear the sea? No, truly. Why, then, your other senses grow imperfect By