Lear died onstage again as I watched.  Sorry
Old geezer; his daughters were shits.  As we
Witnesses, commoners, rose and departed,
We smugly took comfort from Shakespeare's
Cliches:  the high-born fall the hardest,
Their riches can't shield them from intrigues,
The tumult of domestic treachery.  Our lives,
Though, likewise, leave scars.  Who's divorced?  
Who no longer is speaking with someone
Once loved?  But we're common, our sorrows
Too small to be tragedies.  In the end, we will
Expire, like Lear, but no one will applaud
When we do.