EDGAR.
'What are we,' says the blind old man in Lear?
'As flies to the Gods; they kill us for their sport.'
DOBSON. (_Aside_.)
Then the owd man i' Lear should be shaaemed of hissen, but noaen o' the
parishes goae's by that naaeme 'ereabouts.
EDGAR.
The Gods! but they, the shadows of ourselves,
Have past for ever. It is Nature kills,
And not for _her_ sport either. She knows nothing.
Man only knows, the worse for him! for why
Cannot _he_ take his pastime like the flies?
And if my pleasure breed another's pain,
Well--is not that the course of Nature too,
From the dim dawn of Being--her main law
Whereby she grows in beauty--that her flies
Must massacre each other? this poor Nature!
DOBSON.
Natur! Natur! Well, it be i' _my_ natur to knock 'im o' the 'eaed now;
but I weaent.
EDGAR.
A Quietist taking all things easily--why--
Have I been dipping into this again
To steel myself against the leaving her?
(_Closes book, seeing_ WILSON.)
Good day!
WILSON.
Good day, sir.
(DOBSON _looks hard at_ EDGAR.)
EDGAR. (_To_ DOBSON.)
Have I the pleasure, friend, of knowing you?
DOBSON.
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