Bur.
I am sorry, then, you have so lost a father
That you must lose a husband.

Cor.
Peace be with Burgundy!
Since that respects of fortune are his love,
I shall not be his wife.

France.
Fairest Cordelia, that art most rich, being poor;
Most choice, forsaken; and most lov'd, despis'd!
Thee and thy virtues here I seize upon:
Be it lawful, I take up what's cast away.
Gods, gods! 'tis strange that from their cold'st neglect
My love should kindle to inflam'd respect.--
Thy dowerless daughter, king, thrown to my chance,
Is queen of us, of ours, and our fair France:
Not all the dukes of waterish Burgundy
Can buy this unpriz'd precious maid of me.--
Bid them farewell, Cordelia, though unkind:
Thou losest here, a better where to find.

Lear.
Thou hast her, France: let her be thine; for we
Have no such daughter, nor shall ever see
That face of hers again.--Therefore be gone
Without our grace, our love, our benison.--
Come, noble Burgundy.