Though he had bit me, should have stood that night
Against my fire; and wast thou fain, poor father,
To hovel thee with swine and rogues forlorn,
In short and musty straw? Alack, alack!
'Tis wonder that thy life and wits at once
Had not concluded all.--He wakes; speak to him.

Doct.
Madam, do you; 'tis fittest.

Cor.
How does my royal lord? How fares your majesty?

Lear.
You do me wrong to take me out o' the grave:--
Thou art a soul in bliss; but I am bound
Upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears
Do scald like molten lead.

Cor.
Sir, do you know me?

Lear.
You are a spirit, I know: when did you die?

Cor.
Still, still, far wide!

Phys.
He's scarce awake: let him alone awhile.