Osw.
A proclaim'd prize! Most happy!
That eyeless head of thine was first fram'd flesh
To raise my fortunes.--Thou old unhappy traitor,
Briefly thyself remember:--the sword is out
That must destroy thee.

Glou.
Now let thy friendly hand
Put strength enough to it.

[Edgar interposes.]

Osw.
Wherefore, bold peasant,
Dar'st thou support a publish'd traitor? Hence;
Lest that the infection of his fortune take
Like hold on thee. Let go his arm.

Edg.
Chill not let go, zir, without vurther 'casion.

Osw.
Let go, slave, or thou diest!

Edg.
Good gentleman, go your gait, and let poor voke pass. An chud
ha' bin zwaggered out of my life, 'twould not ha' bin zo long as
'tis by a vortnight. Nay, come not near the old man; keep out,