I am cut to the brains.

Gent.
You shall have anything.

Lear.
No seconds? all myself?
Why, this would make a man a man of salt,
To use his eyes for garden water-pots,
Ay, and for laying Autumn's dust.

Gent.
Good sir,--

Lear.
I will die bravely, like a smug bridegroom. What!
I will be jovial: come, come, I am a king,
My masters, know you that.

Gent.
You are a royal one, and we obey you.

Lear.
Then there's life in't. Nay, an you get it, you shall get it
by running. Sa, sa, sa, sa!

[Exit running. Attendants follow.]

Gent.
A sight most pitiful in the meanest wretch,