[Taking her beads from her girdle, she kneels at the foot of the bed.]


O sweet Saint Cleer, and sweet Saint Elid too,
Shield me from rooting cancers and from madness:
Shield me from sudden death, worse than two death-beds;
Let me not lie like this unwanted queen,
Yet let my time come not ere I am ready--
Grant space enow to relish the watchers' tears
And give my clothes away and calm my features
And streek my limbs according to my will,
Not the hard will of fumbling corpse-washers.


[She prays silently.]

[KING LEAR, a great, golden-bearded man in the full maturity of life,
enters abruptly by the door beyond the bed, followed by the PHYSICIAN.]


Lear:

Why are you here? Are you here for ever?
Where is the young Scotswoman? Where is she?


Merryn:

O, Sire, move softly; the Queen sleeps at last.