Bur.
Pardon me, royal sir;
Election makes not up on such conditions.

Lear.
Then leave her, sir; for, by the power that made me,
I tell you all her wealth.--[To France] For you, great king,
I would not from your love make such a stray
To match you where I hate; therefore beseech you
To avert your liking a more worthier way
Than on a wretch whom nature is asham'd
Almost to acknowledge hers.

France.
This is most strange,
That she, who even but now was your best object,
The argument of your praise, balm of your age,
Most best, most dearest, should in this trice of time
Commit a thing so monstrous, to dismantle
So many folds of favour. Sure her offence
Must be of such unnatural degree
That monsters it, or your fore-vouch'd affection
Fall'n into taint; which to believe of her
Must be a faith that reason without miracle
Should never plant in me.

Cor.
I yet beseech your majesty,--
If for I want that glib and oily art
To speak and purpose not; since what I well intend,